


As Much As I Ever Could

by shingekinoboyfriends



Series: As Much As I Ever Could [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Double Dating, House Party, Humor, M/M, Mild Language, Nude Modeling, Roommates, Underage Drinking, a copious amount of stupid headcannons, gay boyfriends doing lots of cute gay things, hella fluff, reiner's frilly apron appreciation fic, that one story with the jizz blanket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 204,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/pseuds/shingekinoboyfriends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Jean's first year at Trost University and, through unfortunate circumstances involving Marco picking up a nude modeling job for the school's figure drawing class, Jean comes face-to-face with Marco Bodt's... extraordinary personality. But Jean's not gay. He swears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. right where i belong

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [As Much As I Ever Could (Spanish/Español)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409413) by [HeartWithFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartWithFire/pseuds/HeartWithFire), [SheenaRogers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheenaRogers/pseuds/SheenaRogers)



> Hey, guys!  
> So, this is a college au JeanMarco story. It's basically consisting of angst, emotional turmoil, "am I gay?" thoughts and fluff galore. Annie and I will be writing for both point of views - I'm covering Marco's, and Annie will be writing Jean's. Let us know how we're doing because this is our first time posting! (:
> 
> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> ***Chapters alternate between Jean and Marco's point of view, beginning with Marco's.

The soft sighs emitting from the machines and the constant beeping from the heart monitor comfort me a little. I sit in the same uncomfortable, brown leather chair beside his bed, holding his small hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. The constant noise in the room tells me that he is alive and that there is still hope that he will be okay. Someday, just not today.

 

“I’m putting on a brave face for mom, but I’m really nervous,” I tell him quietly, resting my elbows against the side of the bed as I lean closer as I tell him my secrets. “Trost University is… it’s a big deal for us, you know? But it’s so far away. I’m worried to leave you guys on your own.”

 

Angelo is still, not responding to my words at all. His thick, curly hair is getting longer and he looks taller, even if he’s only laying in the hospital bed. It’s been this way for two months now, and while I’m comforted by the sighs of the machine breathing for him and the heart monitor that keeps a constant pulse, it’s also nauseating. Angelo, who can’t even breathe for himself, can’t seem to wake up, even after the blunt of his injuries have healed.

 

“This is good for us,” I say, trying to convince myself more than him at this point. “When I graduate and get a good job at a hospital, I’ll be able to take care of you and mom. No more hospital bills, no more comas… it’ll be just like before, except even better.”

 

I sigh myself, looking at the watch on my wrist. It’s almost noon now, and my train leaves in less than an hour. Slowly pushing the chair back, I get to my feet and stretch out my legs before leaning down to place a delicate kiss on my little brother’s forehead.

 

“Wish me luck, Angelo,” I whisper to him, smiling as I ruffle his hair. “Stay well. I’ll come visit this weekend and tell you all about college.”’

 

I grab my suitcase on my way out, pausing in the doorway to look back for a moment, before I’m leaving the ICU ward and heading for the elevators. A nurse at the station smiles sympathetically to me on my way, and I offer her a nod in thanks, doing my best to give her a smile, too. It’s hard, though, when you’re in the worst ward of the hospital. The ICU is where a lot of people don’t make it, and the fact that Angelo is stuck here for who knows how much longer makes me sick to my stomach.

 

It’s a short walk to the bus stop from the hospital and I know the route by heart after all the visits to Angelo. I wait patiently, kicking at the sidewalk a little bit as I wait for the bus to arrive. Absently, I check my phone for text messages, but there are none to distract me further. I’m forced to continue thinking about the fact that today, I am moving to Trost University where I will be living for the next year of my life.

 

Trost University is one of the best. The fact that someone like me got in is pretty impressive, especially considering the fact that my mother certainly had no part in knowing the dean and it was based strictly on my grades.

 

But it’s also a good four hour train ride away. Away from my single mother who is struggling to pay rent for our tiny house and pay the hospital bills. Without me putting in additional money from my job to help, I’m worried she’ll over work herself. But I know that if I don’t go this year, my chance will be gone and I’ll never get to study and someday take care of them.

 

I sigh again. I’ve been doing it a lot lately. I make a mental note to work on that so people actually _want_ to be my friend when I get to school.

 

The bus pulls up to the curb and I scan my card as I get on, heading for the back to take a seat. The world blurs by as we drive and I nervously drum my fingers against my legs as I wait for my stop to come up. It’s only a ten minute ride from the hospital to the train station, and when I get up to get off, I feel my legs shake a little.

 

The bus driver smiles to me as I get off and I try to do the same, though I’m sure it looks pitiful.

 

For the four hour train ride, I sit by myself in a seat looking out the window. I try to focus my mind on anything other than meeting my roommates and getting lost on the big campus. At first, I try to read, but quickly realize how difficult that will be. After that, I try listening to music to calm me down, but even one wrong note sends chills down my spine and I’m forced to stop that, too. I try to sleep, even, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed long enough to fall into a deep sleep, though I do manage to doze off every once in a while for about fifteen minutes.

 

When the train stops in Trost, I gather my suitcase from the overhead compartment and step out into the station. It’s a nice, cool day for fall and the city view is beautiful. I can’t help but admire all the big buildings that reach high up into the sky – it’s nothing like back home. The entire train station is busy and there are so many people that it’s making me dizzy.

 

I leave the station and am greeted by several cars and shuttle buses. I get on the nearest shuttle, knowing that it’s far cheaper than a taxi cab would be.

 

“Where are you headed?” the driver asks me, holding a tablet in his hands with a GPS open.

 

“Trost University,” I tell him, holding my head high. My nerves have been covered by excitement as I look around, seeing so many new and different things. I watch as he puts in the address and gets directions, getting into the driver seat. There are four other people that need to be dropped off, but he says I’m going to be the second one.

 

“Trost, eh?” a young man says, looking in my direction. I give a small nod, an excited smile plastered on my face. “Good for you. That’s the best college we’ve got ‘round here.”

 

“Yes, sir,” I say in the cheeriest tone I can muster.

 

He smiles and nods to my suitcase. “Judging from how excited you look, you must be a freshman.”

 

“Yeah, I am!” I tell him, hardly able to contain my emotions at this point. I shift in my seat, anxious to get to be outside of the bus again and walking around, exploring the new city that will be my home for the next full year.

 

“Well, good luck, kid,” he says as the bus stops in front of a business district. He’s the first to exit the shuttle bus, offering a small wave as he leaves.

 

The bus continues on through the busy streets of Trost. I admire from the window all the people walking around and heading into little shops and cafes for lunch breaks at work. We even pass Trost Trauma Hospital, the hospital that someday, I want to intern at as a resident surgeon.

 

This time, I sigh happily as I imagine myself as a doctor, providing for both mom and Angelo in a nice house here in Trost. Everything could be so much better if I just give it the right amount of time to study.

 

“Trost University,” the driver announces, parking near two huge stone pillars, over top the letters read ‘TROST UNIVERSITY’ and as soon as I see it, my stomach tumbles again. I get out of the bus, thanking him as I pull my suitcase out with me. Moments later, the shuttle bus is gone and I’m standing in front of my future with nothing but a suitcase.

 

So I take my first step with my chin held high and butterflies in my stomach.

* * *

 

I walk around campus for a good twenty minutes trying to find my dorm building. I manage to find the pavilion and food court, where a lot of people are lounging around and playing video games on big screen TVs and eating pizza, as well as the S. L. Library building, which is beautiful with big stone pillars and bookshelves that go from floor to ceiling. But none of these places are my dorm, so I keep walking around aimlessly, knowing that I have to find it soon because it’s already starting to get a little bit colder with the sun going down.

 

I stop into another building, the Jason C. Black building, hoping to ask for directions. The halls are mostly empty, so I keep walking for a bit and manage to make it to a lounge spot with couches and tables set up for students to study throughout the days.

 

My eyes are drawn to a flyer on the nearby wall and I walk closer to get a better look at it. _Posing for an art class,_ I nod to myself, noticing that the pay is particularly well. _Doesn’t sound half-bad._

 

“You interested in being a model?” a quiet voice says from behind me. I jump a little, turning and craning my neck to look up at this guy. He’s taller than I am, though only by about a head, and his hair is dark. He’s dressed in gym clothes with a towel hanging from his shoulder and he’s sweaty – obviously must have been out jogging.

 

“I, uh, I don’t know,” I stutter a bit awkwardly. “I mean, would I be okay for it?”

 

The guy looks me up and down – literally! For a simple pose for the art students to draw, this seems a little sketchy and I awkwardly shift my weight. Finally, his dark eyes meet mine again and he offers a small smile.

 

“You’d be perfect,” he tells me. “I’m Bertholdt, by the way. I arrange models for the freshman and sophomore art classes.”

 

He offers his hand to shake and I take it happily, though I notice it _is_ a bit sweaty. “I’m Marco Bodt,” I reply kindly. “Actually, do you think you could maybe point me in the direction of the dorm buildings?”

 

“Sure! What building are you staying in?”

 

I pull out a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket and smooth it out against the wall. My class schedule is written down as well as, at the bottom, the words _Dormitory Rose_.

 

“Rose,” I reply, folding it more neatly this time and placing it back into my pocket. “I’m just a little… overwhelmed. The campus is huge.”

 

Bertholdt smiles again and, sensing the sweat dripping down from his forehead, he wipes it up with his towel. “Actually, I’ve got some friends staying in that dorm building. I was just over there a while ago. I could walk you there, if you wanted, so you don’t get lost again.”

 

“That would be really great. Thank you so much!”

 

I follow Bertholdt out of the Jason C. Black building and he leads me across campus over a bridge. I keep looking around, still amazed by how large this place is – like a whole different world from back home. My suitcase drags behind me as I keep even with Bertholdt’s pace, though it’s a bit of a brisk walk for me even if my legs are nearly as long as his are.

 

We arrive in front of a large building made of white and pale blue stone. Bertholdt uses his I.D. card to get in the door and I follow after him. The lobby is sort of like a hotel – some couches, a nice TV and a little computer station. There’s even a front desk where a short girl with blonde hair is sitting. She looks up at us and smiles brightly, waving to Bertholdt.

 

“Hey, Christa,” Bertholdt says, leaning against the counter. “I was wondering if you could find Marco’s room for him.”

 

“Absolutely!” the girl – Christa – says cheerily. She smiles at me and clicks on her computer screen, bringing it back to life. “What’s your last name, Marco?”

 

“Bodt,” I supply for her and she types it in.

 

“You’re going to be in room 432. It’s on the fourth floor and to the right.” She slides over a key to me and smiles. “The elevators and stairs are that way.”

 

Bertholdt smiles at me and looks at the number on the key. “You’re roommates with my boyfriend,” he says and I feel my face go a bit red. I hadn’t even realized. “I was just up there a little while ago hanging out. The other guy seems cool, too. Want me to walk you up there?”

 

Shamelessly, I offer a nod of my head because I’m nervous again and somehow, Bertholdt is a bit of a comfort. He walks with me to the elevators and presses the number four. It’s a short ride, but when the doors open, I can’t help the flip my stomach does. I pull my suitcase behind me, walking with Bertholdt down the hall. Then, finally, we’re standing in front of room 432.

 

I use my key to open the door.

 

“Hey, you’re back!” a tall, very muscular blonde guy says as Bertholdt and I enter the room. I shut the door behind me and leave my suitcase there, watching as the two men embrace and the blonde one kisses him. _Must be his boyfriend,_ I think as my eyes scan the room.

 

There’s a bathroom that’s pretty basic with two doors – one for the side with two beds and one desk, and one that leads to the other side of the room with one bed and a desk. As I’m looking around, I feel a strange tingling in the back of my neck and it feels like someone is watching me. Soon enough, my eyes meet with a pair of brown ones that are looking at me with a slight scowl.

 

He’s sitting in the chair at the desk looking at me. He’s thin and tall, though I’m positive that I’m taller, and he has an undercut with sandy brown hair on top. His features are sharp – pointed nose, pointed chin and even his lips are set in a thin line – and it makes him extremely intimidating.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” he says, though his tone is neither mean or nice.

 

“I-I’m Marco,” I stutter a bit, feeling uncomfortable with how irritated he looks. “Um, I’m staying in this dorm.”

 

His eyebrows pull together and he looks up at the blonde guy and Bertholdt for an explanation.

 

“Oh, shit sorry, Jean!” the blonde guy says with a loud laugh. “Bertholdt isn’t our other roommate. But he will probably be around often so you can think of him as one.”

 

The guy, Jean, looks at me again. Before I can get too uncomfortable under his gaze, the blonde guy moves into my line of vision, blocking out Jean. He claps a hand over my shoulder and I feel my nerves sort of melt away because at least he’s smiling at me.

 

“I’m Reiner, nice to meet yah, Marco,” he says, taking my hand and shaking it firmly.

 

“You, too,” I mumble politely. “Which bed will be mine?”

 

“Well, since I got here first, I already claimed the one bed on the other part of the room to myself,” Reiner explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you and Jean are going to be out here.”

 

I gulp as I look around Reiner and back to Jean. He’s not looking at me anymore and is instead texting someone from his cell phone in his hand, a bored expression on his face. I can already see that he’s picked his bed and unpacked a little.

 

“Okay,” I say like it’s not a problem, but I’m a little nervous because Jean doesn’t seem like the type of guy to like me too much.

 

Reiner and Bertholdt head to his side of the room through the bathroom and shut the door, leaving Jean and I alone. I pull my suitcase to my side and set it on my bed to start unpacking what I brought. There is a small wardrobe for my clothes and I put them away neatly, ignoring the feeling of Jean watching my every move, and I make my bed with my blankets and pillows from home.

 

I didn’t bring a lot, so it only takes me a few minutes to unpack. Afterwards, I put my suitcase under my bed and sit down, opening my mouth to try and start a conversation with my new roommate. But when I look at him again, he’s got headphones over his ears and his back is turned to me, leaning over something he’s writing or drawing in his notebook on the desk.

 

I sigh, laying out across my bed. Maybe my future isn’t looking as great as I had hoped.

* * *

 

 

I wake up early the next morning. It’s the first day of classes and that has me all nervous again. I take my time getting dressed in my favorite, green sweater to comfort me, but it feels itchy today. After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I work on packing my bag with my books and notebooks and pens and pencils as neatly as possible to take my mind off the ticking clock.

 

Jean sleeps until the last possible minute before he needs to get up for class. When his phone starts blaring heavy metal music as his alarm, I jump and he slams his finger around until it shuts up. I watch as he rolls around under his sheets for a moment before opening one eye up and squinting against the sunlight.

 

I look away, chewing the inside of my lip, because I’m not sure if I should bid him a good morning or not. He’s just so grumpy and even last night, we didn’t talk at all after the little mix up of him thinking Bertholdt was their third roommate.

 

“What time do you got class?” he mumbles sleepily, stretching as he gets out of bed.

 

“Me?” I ask dumbly, looking around. He just gives me a deadpan expression and I cough into my fist awkwardly. “At 9:30 in the science lab.”

 

Jean nods and heads to the bathroom to get himself ready. For the next twenty minutes I sit on my bed playing with my phone, looking at the screen to distract myself. No new text messages from my old friends, and it’s not one of those new, cool iPhones so I don’t have the internet on it. I sigh again, putting it into my pocket and putting my bag over my shoulder.

 

_Maybe I’ll just head there a little early so I don’t get lost again,_ I decide, pulling on my black boots that are by the door. Just as I’m about to leave, Jean walks out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his thin waist and a toothbrush dangling from between his lips.

 

He looks at me, ready to leave, and then at the clock on the desk.

 

For some reason, even though he didn’t ask, I feel like I owe him an explanation. “I’m just going early so I don’t get lost,” I tell him and he shrugs, walking to his wardrobe and pulling out a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt with a jean jacket to go over the top. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

 

I slip out the door just as he’s about to start getting dressed and hurry down the hall to the elevator. I wait for a few minutes for it, but by the time the doors open and I step inside, I see Jean walking toward me with his satchel hanging over his shoulder and his hands in his pockets. I hold the door for him so he doesn’t have any reason to dislike me later, and he steps in.

 

We ride to the first floor with silence between us, though a nice tune plays overhead. I tap my foot a little and he ignores me and it’s the closest we’ve really come to friendship.

 

We both exit the dorm building and head in the same direction, over the bridge. The science lab is located within the Garrison Building and I remember walking by it yesterday when I was lost on campus. I keep heading in the general direction of it, walking a bit slower to admire all the architecture and how nice the campus is. There are students seated outside on benches talking and laughing; people riding bikes through campus and even the people driving in cars seem friendly enough.

 

“Are you following me or something?” Jean says, turning to look at me over his shoulder. I glance at him and then at the Garrison building, which is right in front of me, and I shake my head.

 

“No, my class is in this building,” I tell him, slowing my pace. He stops and looks at me, squinting his eyes as if he’s looking through me. “Wh-what?”

 

“My class is in this building, too,” he finally says before heading inside. I follow after him and clear my throat awkwardly as we, once again, board the same elevator. “What class are you going to?”

 

“Chemistry with Professor Pixis.”

 

Jean cocks one eyebrow up and replies, “Me, too.”

 

My stomach drops as the elevator stops. On one hand, I should be happy that I’ll have at least one familiar face in my first class to make the transition not so… scary. But on the other hand, the fact that it’s Jean makes me even _more_ nervous, because I can’t tell if he dislikes me or not.

 

_Maybe he’s just always angry looking,_ I try to tell myself as we both head down the hall together. By together, I mean that I walk behind him because it’s narrow and the last thing I want is to be invading his personal space. _Maybe he’s actually really nice and friendly after you get to know him. Like, rough edges or something._

 

He steps into the classroom first and I follow. It’s a simple enough room – black counter tops on all the lab stations with two stools per station. Most of them are filled with students already awaiting the professor’s arrival. I take it upon myself to quickly take an empty one, setting my bag on the counter top and taking out my notebook and Chemistry textbook.

 

I glance up and notice Jean looking around the room before finally heading over to my station. He glances at me before sitting down and I’m a little shocked, though I feel a smile coming on because if he chose to sit with me, he can’t dislike me too much.

 

“Is it cool if I sit here?” he says, putting his bag on the counter top.

 

“Yeah, of course!” I tell him a bit too enthusiastically. He gives me a strange look and I look away, sort of embarrassed.

 

“God,” he says, “you’re a _morning person_ , aren’t you?”

 

I blink a few times before I realize that this is probably a joke. Then I smile at him, small and a little intimidated still, but he returns it with a cheeky one. Any doubt I had about Jean hating me disperses and I’m free to stop being so nervous around him. No more tip toeing around the dorm, either.

 

Professor Pixis enters the room then. He’s a tall old man with a gray mustache and he’s wearing a sweater vest that’s clearly from the 70s. He stands in front of the class and looks at each of us for a long moment, and this takes up to two minutes, before he says anything.

 

“We’ll start with an icebreaker,” he says and everyone groans. “The seats you’re at now will be yours for the semester. You and the person you’re sitting with are partners.”

 

He places a copy of the icebreaker activity on everyone’s table before telling us to begin and that, yes, we will be graded on our answers.

 

“An interview?” I say, taking the paper and looking it over. Jean opens his notebook and takes out a pencil, taking the paper from me so I can do the same.

 

“This is stupid,” he informs me, letting the paper fall back to the table. “I don’t want to do this.”

 

“Let’s just get it out of the way,” I tell him, mostly because I can’t afford to not do well on a graded assignment. “First and last name?”

 

“Jean Kirschtein.”

 

“Do you have any nicknames?” I ask after writing his name down in my notebook.

 

“Nope,” he says, emphasizing on the end ‘pah’ noise.

 

“Where is your hometown?” I ask, pausing to look at him.

 

“Here,” he replies in a bored tone of voice.

 

“Do you have any siblings?” He shakes his head in response and I write none on the paper. “Okay, what’s your special talent, hobby or interest?”

 

“I don’t have one,” he says simply. “I’m good at everything I do.”

 

“…Okay. What are you studying?”

 

“Undecided.” He takes the paper of questions from and starts to go over them himself. “I like rock music and I don’t read. Favorite movie? Jesus, how vague can this thing get?”

 

“You don’t have a favorite movie?” I ask after writing down all his answers.

 

“I like movies but I mean, a favorite? How can you pick just one?”

 

“Well, just list one or two then so we can move on to the next question,” I say a bit impatiently. I don’t have time to dilly dally around with his bad attitude toward the assignment.

 

“Put down Fight Club, I guess,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “What’s next?”

 

“Three words that describe you,” I say.

 

“Awesome, attractive and great.”

 

_Of course_ , I sigh as I write out his answers. I look up at him expectantly, ready to answer the questions myself, though a little bit easier than he had.

 

“Oh, right,” Jean says picking up his pencil. “Name is Marco Bodt. Got a nickname, Marco?”

 

“Not really,” I say. “I’m from Jinae City. It’s south from here.”

 

He writes it down and then looks at the paper for the next question. “Got any siblings, Marco?”

 

“One. A younger brother.” My chest tightens at the mention of Angelo.

 

“Special talents or whatever?”

 

“Nothing, really,” I reply chewing on my bottom lip. “I’m not very good at anything except studying.”

 

“So, what are you studying?”

 

“Pre-med,” I reply. “Oh and I really like classic music and stuff like The Beatles. My favorite books are, uh, the Percy Jackson series. I used to read those a lot when I was younger.”

 

Jean gives me a look like I’ve said too much. I look away from him and pick at a fraying edge in my notebook to distract myself. Before he can ask, I tell him that I really like Tim Burton movies.

 

“Okay, three words to describe yourself and we’re done with this shitty assignment.”

 

“Um, I guess shy, tall and uh, freckles?” I say a bit awkwardly. Jean laughs at my last word and writes it down before tearing the sheet out from his notebook to hand in. I do the same after writing my name on the top of the page so I’ll get credit for it.

 

We sit back down and wait for everyone else to finish so Professor Pixis can start the lecture. Sitting next to Jean, I sneak a glance at him as he checks his phone, typing out a text message to someone. His mouth is set in a thin line again and I find myself thinking that he looks so much better when he’s laughing.

 

I sigh and put my head down on the table.


	2. when the lights go out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder- this chapter begins jean's point of view! (odd chapters are marco, evens are jean) just in case you'd forgotten! :>

To be honest, Trost University has one of the nicest campuses of any college I've toured. The air is clean – especially for being located in such a big city – the buildings have all been renovated, and it has one of the best academic programs in the country. To top it all off, I'm going here for free (thanks mom and dad).

 

And yet, every morning when I wake up for class, that familiar feeling of complete and total abhorrence kicks in and I realize, I fucking hate going to college.

 

Yes, it’s true I’ve only made it through one morning. But I generally have a pretty good sense about things like this.

 

The sound of Reiner snoring from the other room startles me and as I roll over in my uncomfortable twin bed, I notice that the time on my alarm clock is about twenty minutes later than it should be.

 

Huh.

 

Well, that’s some fuckery right there.

 

Bolting out of bed, I fling the covers off of my body (which is pretty impressive seeing as how I managed to curl them around myself like some sort of feather-down cocoon in the midst of the night) and fling my black canvas portfolio over my shoulder. The art box filled with pencils, blending tools, and kneaded erasers is in my hand and I’m busting out the door.

 

I don’t even realize that Marco hadn’t been there until I’m halfway to class, and then I internally curse him for not getting me up, too.

 

 _He’s gonna regret that later when I give him a piece of my mind,_ I mentally scoff. The doors to the Jason C. Black building open automatically and I stride on through, walking so fast that it’s nearly a jog (an _impressive_ jog, you could say – I am _quite_ an impressive guy).

 

I summon an elevator and the doors to one of three open. It's as though Jesus himself is here with me on this fateful morning and is all, “Here, Jean. An elevator for you. You deserve this. Have a great day.”

 

So I do what anyone blessed by the elevator of Jesus would do: upon seeing a girl running to catch the elevator, I push the “door close” button and shut the doors right in her face.

 

You could say I don’t really believe in the whole “paying it forward” thing.

 

Soft and totally uncalled-for elevator music plays on my ride up to the top floor. I start tapping my fingers really really really fast on the wall of the elevator because I was supposed to be in class _like_ _ten minutes ago_ and _how long does it take this slow ass elevator to get to the eleventh floor_ and my feet are subconsciously tapping to the beat of that fucking song playing and—

 

Then the doors to the elevator open on the eleventh floor and I bolt out of there faster than lightning. Okay well maybe not that fast seeing as how it’s physically impossible but you get the picture.

 

And as I round the corner, I notice a suspiciously familiar head of blackish-brownish hair starting toward room 1131 – the art studio where my introductory drawing class is being held.

 

“Marcoooooo,” I call down the hallway, suddenly realizing that I am actually a little out of breath from bolting across campus just to make it to this shitty art class I’m probably not even going to like.

 

To be honest, as I call his name, I don’t even really expect the guy to turn around. It’s really more of a test though, to see if it is who I think it is; the boy hesitantly turns his head and a pair of dark brown eyes meets mine. I glance quickly at the freckles dotting his cheeks. Definitely Marco.

 

“Oh, h-hey, Jean,” he stutters. This kid always looks so scared of me, which actually makes me feel kind of bad. He seems nice enough – kind of a pussy and a little too innocent for his own good, but nice. “Going to class?”

 

“Yeah,” I reply, yawning a little. I'm still up too early to be dealing with the world, especially since my summer schedule had me sleeping in until early afternoon on a daily basis. This whole “setting alarms” thing isn't really my scene. “You?”

 

“Kind of,” Marco laughs nervously, reaching a hand upward to grip the back of his neck (which is clearly flushing a preliminary shade of scarlet). The blush starts creeping upward to his cheeks, and for some reason I find it kind of cute.

 

Wait, no.

 

“So you’re an art student?” Marco asks, coughing to clear his throat and tilting his head a little bit. The blush starts to fade.

 

I’m so caught up in talking to freckles over here that I briefly forget how in a rush I am to get to this dumb art class.

 

“I’m still undecided,” I say, rolling my eyes a little before pointing my middle and index fingers together and booping him on the forehead with them. “Remember?”

 

He rolls his eyes back at me, scoffing a little, and takes a step back. “Oh yeah. You did mention that during ice breaker… Not that you were taking it seriously, like, _at all._ ”

 

So he _is_ capable of a little sass.

 

“I don’t take a lot of things seriously,” I retort, brushing past him to get to the class I was getting becoming even more late for. “Anyway, I gotta get to class… I’ll see you later, I guess.”

 

“Wait a second,” Marco’s voice suddenly comes from behind me, and as I spin around on my heel to face him, he nearly runs right into me. He takes an instinctive step back, and that little pang of guilt starts creeping back into my stomach – making me feel like I’m some kind of monster. Why do I feel so goddamn bad about making some kid afraid of me?

 

 _Because you push everyone away,_ I think exasperatedly, _and because the poor kid’s your roommate. It wouldn’t hurt to be his friend, you know. Oh wait, you don’t know, because you don’t have_ any _fucking friends, you dumbass._

 

“What is it?” I say, trying to take the edge off my voice. I can see him relax a little, his tense shoulders falling a little and the fear starting to dissipate from his eyes.

 

“It’s just,” he starts, then points at the door my hand is already starting to twist open, “this is where I’m headed, too.”

 

I let out an involuntary laugh. “I’m starting to get the feeling you’re stalking me or something, ya creep.”

 

He stares at me for a moment before realizing that, yes, I’m just joking, and then he lets out a laugh, too. “I swear I’m not! Bertholdt just offered me a job modeling for the art students the other day, so here I am.”

 

I look straight at Marco for a second.

 

Then a second longer.

 

My eyes narrow.

 

“You do realize what kind of modeling this is, right?”

 

He blinks at me twice.

 

“What kind?”

* * *

So yeah, I end up being late, but as soon as I realize what’s about to go down in class, I wish I had slept in through the entire period. Or, even better, if I got here a whole semester late, that might suffice as late enough. Because never have I not wanted to experience something as much as I do not want to today.

 

Really, I honest-to-god think I’m going to shit my pants sitting in front of my easel in the outer circle surrounding the platform on which Marco Bodt currently sits buck-ass-naked on.

 

And when I say naked, I’m not talking about that “tasteful censorship” crap. I mean, like, full-on, dick hanging out, freckles on his ass, uncomfortably-blushing naked.

 

No one else seems to mind. In fact, they seem perfectly okay with the fact that my new roommate is 100% commando in the middle of the room.

 

From behind me, my teacher taps at my easel as if to say “get drawing” and as much as I wish I could, I can’t stop staring at the fact that his dick is in plain view and _why are there so many freckles on his ass like where did they come from, did he just get a lot of sun there as a child or something???_

 

Coughing loudly, I grab a pencil out of my bag and shake my head a little to clear my thoughts. _It’s gonna be okay, Jean. Just do the assignment. Don’t look at his face. It’s just a body._ I convince myself of this as I start roughly sketching out the pose he’s in; he’s sitting in a chair, one arm folded behind his head and the other one resting gently on his thigh, and his legs are sort of apart but I can tell somehow that he’s trying to lean as far away from me as possible.

 

I realize that as uncomfortable with this situation as I am, he must be even more so. It became clear to me that Marco didn’t realize the modeling he’d be doing for out class was nude from the minute he walked in the door and got handed a robe, before he was instructed to head to the back room and change.

 

Marco has probably never been naked in front of anybody in his life. He seems too innocent for that, anyway. That’s why he’s so red; that blush I’d seen on his neck earlier was barely a flush compared to how obviously embarrassed and terrified he is of being on display for an entire classroom full of people – me included.

 

Bet he wishes he could back out now, but he’s already here, so it’s not like he can just revoke his offer.

 

 _Poor guy,_ I think to myself, and then I remember I’ve got to share a room with this kid and I think, _Poor me._

 

He straightens his back, puffs his chest out a little, and stares a little more pointedly forward – probably trying to get back some confidence. I readjust the posture on my sketch and work my way downward from the top of his head.

 

Dark, heavily-shadowed hair curls from my pencil point, which then arches down the bridge of his ski-slope nose and curves a line along his lips. Stipples of freckles haphazardly dot his cheeks. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing – I don’t really take art classes, and since most everything I’ve learned up until now has been self-taught, I notice that everyone else seems to know their way about the human figure better than I do. Mine is all scribbled lines and hatching, then more cross-hatching to mark the areas I don’t think I can bring myself to draw.

 

 _If you draw his dick, you’re just asking for an awkward moment later on,_ I think, feeling myself begin to blush accidentally. I wish I could curl up into a hole and die, or at least sleep until winter break.

 

With a surge of courage, my pencil moves to form the curve of his ass against the chair. It’s really round and freckled.

 

The teacher comes behind me again and nods approvingly at my progress – at least, I hoped it was a nod of approval. I hoped I didn’t suck too fucking much compared to everyone else, but right next to me was some sort of Da Vinci so _obviously_ I was feeling a little self-conscious about my own work.

 

I look up at my easel and notice Marco’s eyes start to wander from being focused on the wall; they slowly move to meet mine, a light blush still staining his cheeks. But just as soon as our eyes meet, we both quickly avert our gazes and feel waaaay more fucking awkward than we did before.

 

Still… I don’t know how to say it without sounding hella gay, but even though looking right at Marco just now made me feel so undoubtedly awkward, when I go back to make the final marks on my sketch, I notice I seem calmer, more at ease. Somehow, catching his eye was almost… _reassuring_.

 

And I'm not exactly sure how to feel about that.

* * *

I leave class as soon as the clock turns 10:45 and I don’t bother waiting up for Marco. Even though I don’t have another class until four o’clock, there’s no way I’m going back to the dorm room – like hell I’m going back there, just in case ol’ Freckles decides to show up.

 

Yes, I’m avoiding him. That’s what I do when these kinds of things happen: I avoid them at all costs. And you know what? I’ve found that it generally doesn’t help the situation at all, it just prolongs it.

 

But right now I don’t care because my neck his hot and my chest is hot and all I know is I gotta get out of this fucking building.

 

I don’t wait up for an elevator, I just take the stairs, and I book it. Eleven whole flights’ worth while toting all the art shit I’ve got to carry isn’t easy, but I manage it, and before I know it, I’m out the doors of the Jason C. Black building.

 

And it’s raining.

 

Of _course_ I don’t have an umbrella.

 

“Fuck,” I curse aloud, and a girl passing by looks up from the book she’s reading beneath her umbrella to narrow her eyes at me disapprovingly. _And fuck you, too,_ I think bitterly.

 

I run to the nearest place of shelter, which happens to be the Garrison Science building. I shake my hair before heading inside, feeling a little like a wet dog (and probably smelling like one too, since I didn’t get up in time for my morning shower).

 

Once inside, I find a seat at one of the many booths lining the lounge area, which would have been quiet if there wasn’t some obnoxious girl eating an entire loaf of bread talking loudly with some bald-headed, goony-looking fuck. I slouch down in the seat almost as soon as my ass hits the vinyl, just wanting some peace and quiet. Their volume keeps raising and they keep talking, and when I peer over the back of the booth at them, I see the girl fling bread out of her mouth as she talks animatedly to the boy.

 

She’s pretty, but that was really gross.

 

Sighing, I turn back around in my seat – but just as I do, I notice an abnormally tall and lanky figure entering in through the sliding doors of the building, shaking off an umbrella as he does so. The guy looks like he’s either bolted through the rain or just run a marathon, but I know better.

 

This guy is always sweaty.

 

“Oi, Bertolli,” I call, to which he looks down at me with wide, nervous eyes, but when he realizes it’s just me, he seems a little more at ease. Bertholdt, Reiner and I became acquainted with each other a little the other day, so I don’t feel weird calling out to him. While I wouldn’t consider him a friend, I can at least say hello to the guy.

 

“Jean,” he smiles, “what’s up?”

 

I almost tell him “nothing much,” but then I remember the 2-hour and 45-minute long art session in naked-roommate-Hell… which, as I remember correctly, was all made possible by Bertholdt and his amazing talent-scouting abilities.

 

Immediately I stand up and narrow my eyes at him. “Do you realize what you just put me through?”

 

“What?” he asks, clearly unaware.

 

I look down at my art supplies, then back up to him. “You know where I just came from?”

 

He’s totally stunned into silence, so with no answer, I decide to clue him in.

 

“Figure drawing.”

 

His eyes go wide.

 

I narrow mine. “Yeah. That’s right. _Figure drawing._ With Professor Long. And do you know, Bertholdt, _who_ our figure was?”

 

“I am so sorry,” is all he can manage.

 

“HE’S MY FUCKING ROOMMATE,” I half-scream, but as soon as I realize it came out a little too harsh and a little too loud, some old lady shushes me from an office room down the hall.

 

A blush falls on my cheeks and, wow, I feel bad that I yelled at him, but he deserves it. I had to look at Marco’s springy pen – I mean, freckle-y – I mean, _naked body_ for an entire class period. So, yeah, I blamed Bertholdt.

 

“I’m never going to get that image out of my brain,” I say darkly. Bertholdt gives me a look of sympathy. “And I have to share a room with him later…”

 

“Jean, are you sure you’re not blowing this out of proportion?” he asks, but when I give him a look that says something like “are you fucking kidding me?” he holds up both hands in defense. “I’m not saying it’s not a little awkward, but… it’s just Marco. He seems like a normal guy. If you don’t make it a big deal, maybe he won’t, either.”

 

 _Hm,_ I ponder carefully, _that sounds fair._

 

“Well, time will tell if I can keep a straight face long enough,” I say, sighing. “Guess it’s time to face the music, huh?”

 

Bertholdt smiles sadly. Yeah, he’s lucky he doesn’t have to know my pain. Being straight and seeing something like that? Weird. _Super_ weird.

 

“Want me to walk with you back to the dorms?” he asks. “I just have to drop off some Scantron forms at the Student Government office. Just in case you need some emotional support, or something.”

 

I sigh, looking down, and say, “I wish I could put this off for, like, a week.”

 

“Life’s like that sometimes,” he says apologetically. He drops a hand to my shoulder and shoves me lightly. “Come on. I’m sure he’s back already.”

 

And with that, I pick my damp things back up and trudge through the rain after Bertholdt, wishing that this rain had some sort of magic powers to make me disappear forever.

* * *

 

“You got this,” Bertholdt says, gripping my shoulders with both hands. “Just go in there, act like nothing happened, and it will seem like nothing really did happen. You can convince yourself of it.” It sounds like Bertl took a line straight out of Reiner's book, _Pick-Me-Ups and How to Effectively Use Them_.

 

I nod once. “I got this,” my voice echoes, and with that, I get out the key card from my back pocket and swipe it through the door; the light above the doorhandle beeps a sharp green and I take a deep breath.

 

_It’s just Marco. He’s just a normal guy. Act like nothing happened. You got this._

 

I turn the doorknob and open up the door.

 

Reiner’s lounging on the couch watching Property Virgins on HGTV (feminine and creepy, but I don’t question it). He’s the only one in the room I notice as I scan it for movement. No signs of intelligence anywhere.

 

“Hey babe,” Reiner greets as Bertholdt follows me in the door, closing it gently behind him. “Did you stop by the post office and drop off those bills?”

 

“Yep,” he replies from behind me, moving to take off his jacket before joining Reiner on the couch.

 

Reiner nods once, then looks up at me. “’Sup, Jean.”

 

I don’t say anything for a second, and this pause is what causes him to give me a second glance. Maybe I look pale. I feel kind of sick.

 

 _You’re definitely making more out of this than what it needs to be,_ I think haphazardly, my thoughts running a thousand miles a minute. I see Reiner open his mouth to say something, but when Bertholdt puts a hand on his leg, he stops.

 

“Is Marco in there?” I ask, pointing to our dorm room door.

 

Reiner stares at me blankly. “Uh, yeah.”

 

I nod at him and kick my shoes off at the door, slowly gravitating toward the door to which an awkward moment clearly awaits. Reiner and Bertholdt are whispering fiercely behind me, but I tune out individual words because I know they’re probably talking shit and I don’t care to know what that is specifically.

 

The door creaks open and I close it behind me. The lights are off, but I can see the light from Marco’s laptop illuminating the upper half of his face from the top bunk across the room.

 

He looks up at me.

 

“Hey,” I say. My voice sounds really deep, even in my own ears, and I clear my throat. I set my bag down and sit down in the desk chair underneath my own bunk.

 

“Oh,” Marco replies feebly, “hey.”

 

I want nothing more than for this moment to be over. It starts to feel really quiet and one of us needs to fill the void of silence so I say the first thing that comes to my mind – which also might be the most ill-worded response to the events which occurred earlier.

 

I say:

 

“So why do you have so many freckles on your ass?”

 

Marco looks like he’s about to have a hernia.

 

“I mean, uh,” I say, but the sudden, unexpected sound of laughter fills my ears and I realize it’s Marco, laughing his freckled ass off as his head leans way back against the end of his bunk. His head hits the crook between wall and ceiling.

 

And, for some reason, when I see him laughing, I can’t help but start laughing, too.

 

It starts out slow, because mostly I’m just laughing at Marco’s dumb reaction to my own stupidity, but soon I start to throw my head back because it isn’t even awkward anymore. Right now it’s all tears streaming down my face, almost falling out of my chair, chest hurting, painful fucking _hilarity._

 

“I’m sorry,” I manage, but he waves his hand as though to say “don’t apologize” and he wheezes out what I think is a laugh, collapsing on his stomach as his face presses hard against the mattress.

 

It’s here, right at this moment, that I realize being roommates with Marco might not be the absolute worst thing in the world.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I sputter, wiping my eyes with the back of my wrist. I look up at him and he’s doing the same, the blush staining his cheeks probably half from shame and half from crying.

 

He’s the next to apologize. “I’m really sorry about… that,” he says. “I swear to God I didn’t know, and that you would be there–”

 

I cut him off. “It was all Bert. Don’t worry about it, I’m already over it.”

 

And you know what? I _was_ over it.

 

He smiles down at me. “I’m glad.”

* * *

 

It’s Thursday night, and we somehow made it through a week. Marco and I see so much of each other that it’s hard not to feel like we’re almost friends. It’s kind of strange, someone being around so often, especially someone as nice as him.

 

He’s quiet a lot, and sometimes we just work independently in mutual silence, but somehow along the way we start hanging out in the living room while Reiner’s over at Bertholdt’s.

 

On Tuesday – the day that will forever be known as _Nudesday: Day of Reckoning_ – we end up watching Die Hard with the gays at one in the morning. Wednesday, we both get back from Chemistry and instead of doing our lab homework, we play Call of Duty and curse loudly – or, I do, anyway, while Marco just kind of kicks me in the back of the leg when I fuck up, which is like, all the time, so the back of my leg is pretty battered.

 

It’s Thursday and Marco gets out of his Medical Terminology class at 7:30. I’m sketching underneath my bunk bed and he busts through the door, drops his jacket on the floor and leaps up onto his bed with a loud sigh.

 

“How was class?” I ask off-handedly.

 

“Meh,” he replies. At least he’s honest. “Just glad this week is over.”

 

“Fucking right.”

 

He seems really quiet, so I look up at him through the bars on the sides of the bed. Marco’s staring up at his ancient flip phone and clicking away at the buttons.

 

“Where’d you dig that fossil up at,” I say, referring to the phone as I return to my sketches.

 

“It was my Mom’s old phone.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Sorry I’m not as high-tech as you, oh privileged, tech-savvy guru.” I hear the smile in his voice.

 

“Smartphones aren’t even that new, you do realize.”

 

“New to me.”

 

“You’re hopeless.”

 

Click. Click. Clickclickclick. Clickclickclickclickclick. Click.

 

I sigh, putting my pencil down. “Who are you typing at so furiously?”

 

“First of all, I’m not _typing at_ her, I’m texting her,” Marco states matter-of-factly.

 

“Hn,” I grunt. “Your girlfriend?”

 

He stops typing and I see him smile – and it’s kind of a bashful smile, too, like he’s embarrassed about it. But then he goes, “My _mom,_ ” and I realize he has every reason to be.

 

“You are such a momma’s boy,” I remark.

 

“Excuse you, I’m her _little angel_.”

 

“More like _freckled Jesus._ ”

 

Marco spit-laughs, sets his phone down on his chest and puts a hand over his eyes. His laugh is way too fucking gleeful; I don’t like the infectious qualities that it possesses, especially when I’m trying to draw over here.

 

“I’m going home this weekend,” he says finally, once he’s got the giggles out of him.

 

I pause.

 

Why is it suddenly so strange that I won’t see Marco for a few days? It’s not like I’ve known him very long, and we’ve only been on good terms with each other for a few days. I honestly don’t know the answer myself, and when I can’t understand something, I become frustrated, and that frustration soon rises in my chest and turns to anger in my head.

 

My next words come out as kind of harsh.

 

“It’s pretty sad that you miss home _that_ much, that you can’t be away for more than a few days.”

 

The laughter that once hung in the air is all dried up. Marco’s staring up at the ceiling, blinking, trying to register the new change in atmosphere.

 

I don’t really care what he thinks, all I know is that I’m a little pissed he’s leaving me all weekend on campus.

 

“What about you?” he asks. “Aren’t you going anywhere?”

 

“Nope,” I say, emphasis on the “pahh,” popping the consonant like a bubble on my lips. “Unlike you, I not still attached to my mom’s–“

 

“Hey,” he cuts me off, leaning over the bed and staring at me through the bars of the bedframe. He’s not glaring, but his eyes are hard and I can sense he’s hurt. “I have to go home.”

 

The way he says it makes me feel like he doesn’t have a choice.

 

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, but when I realize I have nothing left to say, I close my sketchbook, grab my pencil and stand up from the computer chair. “I think I’m gonna go sketch downstairs.”

 

“Sure,” Marco says. And that’s the end of it.

* * *

 

When I wake up the next morning, Marco’s stuff is gone and his bed is made up nice and neat. Everything looks pretty much normal, but it’s unnaturally quiet, and even in the dead of sleep (let’s be real, I sleep like a motherfucking _rock_ ), I could tell something was different.

 

It’s because he isn’t here, waking me up to the sound of hangers sliding back and forth in his closet as he tries to decide what to wear for school.

 

Today, it’s just me.

 

I sigh, running my hands over my face. This weekend is gonna blow – it’s just Reiner, Bertholdt and me, and even though we get along pretty well, there’s something missing.

 

It seriously annoys me that it all boils down to Marco.

* * *

 

“We’re going to a party tonight,” Reiner says gruffly, poking his head in through the door of our room. “You can come if you want.”

 

I’m feeling mopey and full of self-pity so I say, “No, it’s fine. Go on without me.” My words are followed with a sigh.

 

“Alright, drama queen,” he says with an eye roll and shuts the door.

 

“Dickface,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at the door, then lean way back against my chair.

 

_Great job, dumbass. You just passed up plans for tonight – plans for what will probably be the only party you’ll ever get invited to. What the hell are you going to do with your night now, huh?_

 

I proceed to ask myself that question all night long, and as the clock strikes 11:00, I realize I’ve done nothing except dick around on the internet, sketch a little, and mope.

 

_You are seriously so fucking pathetic._

 

I close my laptop and get up from the chair I’ve been sitting in for four hours, which I realize upon standing, has been retaining quite a bit of butt heat. The air in our dorm room is actually kind of chilly, and I instantly regret standing. Well, my ass does, anyway.

 

Striding through the door and into the living room, I walk past the television and couch and look at the food selection. A shelf beside the door is what we consider our “pantry” (if you can call the measly stock we have a pantry). There’s a bag of Reiner’s Veggie Straws that if he catches me eating, he’ll never let me forget about it. He seriously loves those things. Marco has a box of Pop Tarts that are sprinkled pink. There’s a bottle of flat soda and some stuff to make pasta.

 

I would make the pasta if I knew how. I’ve never been much of a cook.

 

My stomach growls. The Pop Tarts are looking pretty appetizing, but I don’t want to steal Marco’s food since clearly we don’t have much.

 

_Maybe I’ll text him and ask if I can eat some._

 

On a piece of poorly-ripped-out notebook paper, contact information for the three of us staying in Room 432 (and bonus! Bertholdt) is scratched out in each of our handwriting. Reiner’s is thick, bold, and a little messy. Right beneath his is Bertholdt’s thin and shaky script. I’m beneath Bert, and under mine is Marco’s.

 

I almost scoff at his handwriting. The lines of his name are stiff, rigid as the numbers that come after, and at the end of the line is a fucking _smiley face._

 

There’s no way for me to hold a grudge against this kid. He draws smiley faces next to his contact information, for Christ’s sake.

 

I pull out my iPhone and unlock the screen, accessing my contact information and pull up a new message. My fingertips punch out the number (which I triple-check to make sure I got it right and my message isn’t sent to some random stranger), add him to my contacts, and send:

 

> **To: Marco**
> 
> hey dude can i eat some of ur poptarts?????

 

I wait impatiently, staring at the Pop Tarts just _beckoning_ me from their place on the shelf, and when I don’t get a reply in three minutes, I send him more question marks – just in case he saw my message and forgot to reply.

 

After the second message, I get a reply:

 

> **From: Marco**
> 
> Who is this?

 

Furiously, I tell him it’s me, Jean. _I can’t believe neither of us had each other in our phones._

 

The thought vaguely crosses my mind – what if he’s still mad at me from earlier? That guilty feeling creeps in and I go to take a seat on the couch. I was a little (okay, a _lot_ ) unnecessarily harsh and he definitely didn’t deserve the tone I used on him. But…

 

As I’m sitting here, thinking about how I’m alone in this dimly-lit dorm room on the cusp of midnight, I start to wish I was home with my own family. Even Marco, who doesn’t really have much to his name but a box of Pop Tarts and a shitty flip phone, has a home to go back to. When I think about it, I can’t even be mad because he has a great relationship with his parents. I can only be jealous.

 

And I am.

 

My phone goes off and I quickly check his reply.

 

> **From: Marco**
> 
> Sure, I guess! Just don't eat them all.

 

_Yesssss._

 

I hop up off the couch and open the cardboard box, taking out a package, and opening it as I head back to where my phone sits. I take a big bite and moan audibly. _So good._ I don’t even like Pop Tarts that much, but for some reason it just tastes really awesome right now.

 

I hope Marco doesn’t hate me. I decide to shoot him another text after thinking about it for a second, guilt eating away at me as I simultaneously eat Marco out of house and home – and he isn’t even home.

 

> **To: Marco**
> 
> marco... i'm sorry about yesterday. i'm kind of a dick, like, 900% of the time /:

 

And then, after already sending it, I send one more.

 

> **To: Marco**
> 
> also thanks for the pop tarts, i was like super fucking hungry.

 

He doesn’t reply for a long time. I don’t really mind, because it feels good to at least have apologized, and if he’s honestly giving me the silent treatment (which is doubtful because this kid is honestly Freckled Jesus) then that’s on him.

 

I start watching some documentary on TV about ancient aliens, and how supposedly aliens are real and are going to come for us all and take over the world. It’s pretty morbid and dumb, but as I’m watching it, I can’t help but feel like I wish someone was here with me. It doesn’t really matter who at this point.

 

 _When did you start getting so clingy?_ I think. _You’ve been alone for a long time. You don’t need friends to watch stupid television documentaries with, or to share the other Pop Tart with, or whatever._

 

I pull a blanket over myself which had been originally tossed in a haphazard gesture across the back of the couch. It’s fuzzy and smells weird... I try not to dwell on it.

 

However, right before I drift off, I hear the three-toned chime of a text alert next to my ear. I reach to find my phone which is half-buried beneath the throw pillow under my head, squint my eyes open, click the home button, and peer blindly at the screen.

 

But I already know who it is before I even check.

 

> **From: Marco**
> 
> It's okay, Jean, I forgive you. :-)

 

A soft smile falls on my face and I roll over, phone clutched in my hand, and pass out.

* * *

 

The sound of the door opening startles me from my slumber. I hear muted voices, something that sounds a lot like kissing, and a grunt.

 

Rolling over, my eyelids peel back a fraction and I can make out the blurred forms of two guys in the doorway, attached at the lips, and the hips, and their legs are all intertwined.

 

“Hn,” I grumble, “get a room.”

 

The smacking sound of lips parting is sudden and Sweaty Prince jumps a little. “Oh, Jean!”

 

“Yep,” is all I can manage, sitting upright and rubbing at my eyes.

 

“Go back to _sleeeeeep_ ,” Reiner croons, bending down a little, swaying to the side as he does so. His voice sounds drunk as a skunk. “We’re gonna go in my room and–”

 

“Jesus Christ,” I cut him off, grabbing for my phone and standing immediately. “Okay, I’m gone. I’m gone. Say no more, I’m gone.” I hold my hands out in front of me, trying to block the weird image from my mind, and shut the door to the bedroom behind me with a slam that rings in my ears.

 

 _What ungodly hour are they stumbling in at?_ my mind wonders tiredly. I click the circle button on my phone and read a blurry _2:18_ on the screen in bold, white numbers.

 

“God damn.”

 

A yawn pries itself from my throat and I stretch a little, shimmying up the bars and throwing myself onto my bunk bed. The sheets are cold and I wish I was still curled up in that fuzzy blanket that smelled suspiciously of jizz.

 

I tuck myself underneath the sheets and roll over, my feet burrowing themselves into a pocket created by the fold of my comforter. There’s a moment where I almost fall asleep, and it’s right on the verge of that moment when I hear it.

 

_Oh, God. Please let this not be happening to me._

 

“Ah, fuck! Reiner!”

 

My eyeballs nearly pop straight out of my head. I don’t even believe what I’m hearing at first, and convince myself that maybe Bertholdt just stubbed his toe or something…

 

But clearly that is not the case when I hear the sound of bed springs squeaking up and down, low grunting, and a strange slapping sound.

 

I press a hand over my mouth and lie there, horrified at what I’m hearing going on in the next room over. Instinctively I reach for my phone and scroll through my list of contacts (which, shamefully enough, isn’t very long at all) until I find the name I’m looking for.

  
Frantically, I begin to type, glancing over my shoulder every few words to be certain of the horror presently shocking my system.

 

“Fuck me, _shit._ ”

 

 _Holy shit, was that Bertholdt?_ I honestly can’t believe the things I’m hearing coming out of his mouth. An inhuman growl emanates from their room and a shiver crawls up my spine.

 

I start typing faster.

 

> **To: Marco**
> 
> are u awake????? freckled jesus answer the call pLEASE

 

 _Please reply, please reply, please reply._ _I know it’s two in the morning but if you were awake, that would be seriously so awesome right now…_

 

After waiting just a few minutes, I get a response.

 

> **From: Marco**
> 
> Yeah, what is it, Jean? Is everything alright?

 

I gulp. There’s a lot of moaning coming from the other side of the dorm and I pull my legs up to meet my chest, cold and awkward and 500% disturbed.

 

“FUCK!”

 

My fingers move quickly and I send the message.

 

> **To: Marco**
> 
> can u talk right now? there's somethin fucky happening rn and i am rly freaked out...

 

He’s quicker to reply this time.

 

> **From: Marco**
> 
> Sure, give me a minute! 

 

Before I know it, my phone lights up and the ringtone starts to play. Sliding the ‘unlock’ button, I bring the phone to my ear and sigh.

 

“Marco?” I ask, my voice hushed.

 

“Yeah, Jean?” he replies, clearly a little confused. He sounds worried. “Are you okay?”

 

“I am _so_ not okay.”

 

Just then, the sound of the bed squeaking picks up and that distinct slapping sound increases frequency.

 

“Okay,” I breathe, “so Reiner and Bertholdt just got back from some party and they’re…” I can’t even bring myself to finish. My nose is all scrunched up and _God, this is just so unfortunate._

 

Marco’s voice sounds even more worried now. “What is it?”

 

I spit it out in one quick word.

 

“ReinerandBertholdtareinthenextroomfucking.”

 

He coughs loudly. “WHAT.”

 

“I said they’re fucking!” I hiss.

 

One loud laugh busts through the phone, and then more muffled giggles (yeah, this little shit is _giggling_ ). I imagine his shirt over his nose, trying to keep quiet because it’s like two in the morning and his parents are probably asleep.

 

“They came home, _wasted,_ making out in the open door to the hallway, and wake me up from off the couch… So I’m just trying to fall asleep again and they start fucking _having buttsex–“_

“’Buttsex’?” Marco repeats, and starts laughing all over again.

 

I go quiet for a second, hearing his voice on the other end of the line and feel a little more comforted. But only a little. Because it’s still going on and I’m still not okay with any of it.

 

“Just be quiet for a second,” I say, then add, “I’m going to put you on speaker so you can experience the horror for yourself.”

 

I hear him say, “Oh, god,” and then proceed to pull the phone away from my ear, click ‘speaker’ and wait for it.

 

“Here it comes,” I whisper, terrified.

 

For a minute, all we hear is the slapping sound, but then it crescendos and the grand finale begins.

 

“You’re so fucking tight!”

 

A strange hiss comes from the phone and I know Marco understands the reality of the situation.

 

“Fuck me!”

 

There’s a weird choking sound.

 

“You’re a dirty fucking whore,” Reiner growls.

 

Marco’s voice is now a whisper, but is totally baffled. “Oh my god, so it’s actually happening.”

 

I take it off speaker. “Help me.” My voice sounds like I’m about to cry.

 

“I’m so sorry.” He pauses. “Hopefully it will all be over soon. I mean, they can’t just keep going on forever, right?”

 

“We can only pray.”

 

Marco is quiet a minute, then says, “Freckled Jesus has heard your prayer, my son.”

 

I spit everywhere and can’t help it when I start laughing. “GOD.”

 

“Really though,” he continues, a bit more serious now, “just give it another ten minutes. They’ll be snoring in no time.”

 

The thought of having to wait another ten minutes in the dark by myself is terrifying. Then I think of Marco on the other end, and how for some reason, the knot in my gut starts to unwind as the sound of his voice travels to my ear from so many miles away.

 

Having a friend is a strange thing.

 

But it might be a good kind of strange.

 

“Will you stay on the phone with me until it’s over?”

 

I can sense him smiling. “Of course, Jean.”

 

He says my name and I burrow deeper under the covers, pulling them up under my chin. A subconscious smile creeps up onto my face.

 

Our dorm room is freezing, but my face feels warm.

 

“AHH, I’M COMING!”

 

Bertholdt’s sudden cry makes me feel like I’m choking.

 

“One down, one to go,” I say, earning a laugh from Marco.

 

 _Wait for it,_ I think. _Wait for it…_

 

It isn’t long after before I hear Reiner call Bertholdt’s name, stringing along a variety of curses along after it. I can’t stop myself from cringing, thinking how I’m never going to be able to look at these two the same way ever again and how Marco is so fucking lucky he isn’t here right now to deal with this bullshit.

 

“Okay,” I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

“Is it over?”

 

“I think so.”

 

He chuckles. “See, what did I tell you?”

 

Marco’s such a good guy. The fact that he subjected himself to my terror while he could be asleep in bed right now without a care in the world makes me feel guilty and grateful at the same time. “Thanks, dude. I honestly don’t know how I could have gotten through this without you.”

 

There’s a long, dramatic pause on the other line, but when his voice returns, something in it sounds different.

 

“Anytime. Now try and get some sleep.”

 

“Sorry if I woke you up.”

 

He’s the one to sigh now. “It’s alright, I was up anyway.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Mhm.” He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth softly. “I was watching a movie.”

 

“Yeah? What movie?”

 

“Grave Encounters,” he replies. “Bad choice before trying to go to sleep. It ended a while ago but I keep thinking about how creepy it was.”

 

“I’ve seen that one,” I say. “It was pretty good. I’m kind of a horror movie buff, though.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“I mean, yeah, you could say that,” I reply, making my voice sound a little uppity, then laugh once. “Nah, really though, I’ve got a huge collection, actually.”

 

“Do you have Carrie?”

 

“Do I _have Carrie._ ” I roll my eyes. “I mean, it’s not even that scary, but it’s a classic.”

 

“I thought it was scary.”

 

“Well that’s ‘cuz you’re a pussy.”

 

He scoffs. “Hey!”

 

“Just sayin’.” But I’m smiling and, obviously, I don’t really care if he thinks Carrie was scary or not. I’m just glad to have someone to talk to because I feel like I never have had anyone that I can talk to so easily.

 

Which is weird, especially since I’ve seen the guy naked, and you’d think that seeing your roommate naked would make for a really uncomfortable school year. It kind of ended up being a blessing in disguise, because after that, it was like a wall was broken down.

 

And now I’m talking on the phone with the guy.

 

It’s just strange, I guess.

 

A yawn pries itself from my lips. “Well, I’m going to try and get some sleep. You should, too, if you can.”

 

“Yeah,” he replies uncertainly, “I’ll try.”

 

“Just remember that nothing from that movie was real, and you aren’t going to get possessed by demons because your house isn’t some old asylum.”

 

“I just really don’t like the fact that my room is right across the hallway from the bathroom,” he sighs, “and I keep thinking about how that black guy turned into a demon, popped out of the bathtub full of blood and sucked some guy in with him.”

 

I’m grinning now, but it’s a tired grin, nonetheless; I feel like I’ve just run a marathon because the retained trauma from tonight’s happenings is too great.

 

“Nothing is gonna happen, dude. If you still can’t sleep in a little while, you can call me, okay?”

 

“Okay,” he laughs, albeit nervously. “Thanks, Jean.”

 

 _He keeps saying my name,_ I think, and I can’t help but feel something strange happening in my chest.

 

“No problem,” I manage.

 

He sounds tired too; I hope he gets some sleep before sunrise.

 

“Night, Jean. I’ll see you Sunday.”

 

The wide grin on my face fades a little and my face warms again. “Yeah, see ya.”

 

Before I know it, I’m falling asleep to the sound of Reiner’s loud ass man-child snoring coming from the next room over… But I barely even notice it, because the last thing I hear before I fall asleep is the sound of Marco’s voice echoing in my ears.

 

And I don’t feel so alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write. Tears were shed... tears of laughter. Hopefully I captured his personality and made it fun to read. :-) The next chapter will be posted sometime this week - Katie's in the middle of finals but Christmas break is right around the corner, so updates are going to become more frequent.
> 
> Also- if you made it all the way through this chapter, I applaud you. It was so long. _Long as balls._


	3. nowhere fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the bit of a delay between chapters! Annie is currently knee-deep in Jean's next chapter so I thought that we would throw this one out a bit earlier than we originally were planning! (:
> 
> Happy holidays and Merry Christmas, you guys!!

The weekend seems to fly by. I spend most of the time at the hospital, visiting Angelo and telling him all about college life so far – how independent it is, how I’m making friends, and about my classes that I really like so far. I leave out the nude model job that I did, because I feel like he would judge me, even in his unconscious state. I’ll keep that story for another day, when he can at least laugh about it.

 

“Do you have everything you need?” Mom had asked after stopping at the train station with me to see me off. She looked older somehow, like life was literally being sucked out of her. It made me feel so sad and my chest was so tight that I could barely talk, so I’d just nodded instead. “I love you, Marco. I’ll see you next weekend, okay?”

 

I’d nodded again, not able to trust my voice, before letting her hug me once more, tightly, before boarding the train. Four hours later, I found myself back in Trost, and before I knew it, I was back at the dorm. Though my side is still as clean as I’d left it, the rest of the dorm is a mess.

 

The pantry is the first thing I come across as I make my way to the bathroom to put my toothbrush back there from my bag, and I see my box of pop tarts.

 

I pick it up and frown, looking inside. _Empty._

 

“Hey, Marco.”

 

I look up at the door, spotting Jean strolling in with his hands in his pockets. He’s got a relaxed smile on his face and his cheeks and nose are sort of pink from the brisk air outside. He opens his mouth to say something else but freezes when he spots the now empty box of pop tarts in my hand.

 

He coughs into his fist and looks away, the smile gone. “So, uh, about the pop tarts,” he starts.

 

“It’s okay,” I reply, though I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed. They were my favorite – the strawberry kind. For some reason, they just reminded me of being a little kid and the new school year starting up.

 

“I’ll buy you some more to make up for it!” Jean says, taking the box from me and hiding it behind his back. I smile, because it’s sort of a 180 on how he had been just a week ago when we first met. Jean just wasn’t a scary person to me anymore. “Anyway, if you’re hungry, we should get something ‘cause I’m fucking starved.”

 

“The pop tarts didn’t fill you up?” I joke as he tosses the box into the trash can.

 

“Will you let up about the pop tarts?” he says and I laugh, putting my now unpacked bag underneath my bed. All of my clothes are hung back up in my wardrobe neatly and everything is as it should be. “Seriously though, I’ve been living off of them for the past two days. I need some real food.”

 

“Sure, Jean,” I reply. “I don’t have a lot of money right now though. Train tickets are sort of expensive.”

 

“Hey, I’ll treat you this time!” Jean says as he throws an arm over my shoulders and leads me out of the dorm, letting the door fall shut behind us. “It’s the least that I can do for the whole pop tart ordeal.”

 

I smile as we head to the elevator. He keeps talking the whole way down to the main campus and all the way to the food court. Even though he says his weekend was boring, he has a lot to say. I find that I really like hearing him talk, because he just gets so worked up over the littlest things.

 

The one thing we don’t talk about, though, is Reiner and Bertholdt.

 

“So, what are you feeling?” Jean asks as we look around the food court before us. There’s a Chinese food stand, a pizza place, the typical burger and fries place, a noodle stand and a sandwich shop.

 

“Uh, how about we try the noodles?” I suggest and he nods, licking his lips hungrily as we rush to get a good spot in line.

 

Jean orders the typical ramen noodles and I go for something a bit more spicy. When we get our bowls, we head over to find a table that is empty and sit down to eat. They gave us spoons and chopsticks, so I opt to use the spoon because I’ve never been able to grasp the concept of chopsticks. Jean, however, uses them and begins to slosh his food around in the bowl before taking a large amount and shoving them into his mouth, slurping loudly until it’s all been sucked in.

 

I stare at him for a moment as he eats, slurping as he does, until he notices.

 

“What?” he asks, his mouth full of chewed up noodles.

 

“N-nothing,” I say and look down at my own bowl, using my spoon to take a bite. He shrugs his shoulders before returning to slurping up his food and I eat mine slowly, taking sips of water between every other bite.

 

After a few minutes of continual slurping noises from Jean, I look up to find him drinking the soup leftover from the bowl. He sets it down on the table making a loud, “ahhhhh” noise as if it just quenched his thirst. Then, he looks at me and sits back in his chair.

 

“You’re a slow eater,” he comments.

 

“Well, you just inhaled your food,” I reply as I take another bite of mine, though I can’t help feeling a little pressured so I make it a super big bite.

 

Jean laughs at this and I crack a smile. Whenever he laughs, it’s like this special thing that I’m lucky to get to see. Usually, he walks around with a scowl on his face and his lips set in a thin line. Even when we’re hanging out, he doesn’t laugh all that much, though it’s not like I’m the funniest person to be around. So when he does laugh occasionally, I feel like I’m witnessing something that I should be proud to see.

 

Realizing how much I’m thinking into this, I feel my cheeks flush and I go back to eating my noodles.

 

“Why is your face so red?” Jean asks, leaning forward so he’s closer to me.

 

“I-it’s the spices,” I lie and I break for a drink of water to try and calm my face down. _So embarrassing, god._ “I love spicy food but sometimes I just can’t handle it, I guess.”

 

He shrugs again, looking around the food court as I finish up my noodles. A few moments later, as I’m standing to throw away our trash and return the bowls to the noodle station, I see a familiar face.

 

He’s dressed in all white with a blue apron and he’s standing behind the counter of the café in the center of the food court. His short blonde hair is pulled up and stuffed under a paper hat that reminds me of the 50s, but his blue eyes look the same as they always do. When he sees me, he grins and waves from across the food court.

 

I lift my hand to wave back before heading over to say a quick hello. Glancing back at our table, Jean is still just sitting there looking around with his usual scowl.

 

“Hey, Armin,” I say as I reach the counter.

 

“Hi, Marco!” he replies happily. “How was your weekend?”

 

“It was good. I went home to visit my family.” He nods, still smiling, and I ask him the same question in return.

 

“It was all right. I worked here and did some homework, nothing too special,” he replies with a small shrug of his shoulders. “By the way, did you study for the medical terminology test we have tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, I think I’ll do okay,” I answer, looking around at the small café that he’s working in. “What about you? It’s just the basic vocabulary from chapter one, and there weren’t too many.”

 

“I studied all weekend, so I’m sure I’ll do great!” Armin says with a big smile again. I can’t help but laugh a little at his enthusiasm. Armin is, if nothing else, definitely the polar opposite to Jean. “Oh, my break’s almost up. It was good talking to you, Marco. I’ll see you in class tomorrow!”

 

“Sure. Bye, Armin.”

 

As he heads back to begin working again, I head back to the table where Jean is still sitting. He looks irritated as his brown eyes scan the food court. When they land on me, his eyes narrow and my stomach flips as I approach the table.

 

“Dude, where the fuck did you go?” he asks when I’m in earshot.

 

“I just said hi to a friend,” I tell him. “Sorry I took so long.”

 

He shrugs like it’s no big deal and gets to his feet, his chair sliding back on the linoleum flooring. He starts toward the doors and as I walk by, I make sure to push his chair back in for him. Then, I speed up my pace to catch back up with him, a happy smile on my face to make up for the lack of one on his, and we head back to the dorm together.

* * *

Monday comes all too quickly.

 

I spend my morning in Chemistry with Jean, working on a lab that Professor Pixis gave to us as we walked in the door. After that, we grabbed an early lunch before having to separate for our next classes. I walk with my head down, working on replying to a text message from Jean who seems to be in a perpetually bad mood whenever we have to part ways after lunch. He says it’s because he just hates his next class, but I can tell that I’ve grown on him.

 

I send the text and put my phone into my pocket. Just then, I spot Armin walking a little ways ahead of me, headed for the same building, and I quicken my pace to a light jog to catch up. It’s easy since he’s so much shorter than I am and in a few seconds, I’m walking beside him, matching pace.

 

“Hey, Armin,” I say, making him look up from his notebook. He offers me a nervous smile, looking a little flustered. “What’s up?”

 

“Last minute studying,” he admits, holding up his notebook with a sheepish smile. “I’m a little nervous now. What if I don’t do as well as I hoped?”

 

“You’ll do great!” I give him an encouraging pat on the back as we head inside. “You’re one of the best in the class already. You always are the first to raise your hand to answer questions and volunteer to write it on the board.”

 

He nods his head a little, as if only just now remembering that he does those things every day in class. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right, Marco!” he says, beaming at me and stopping to put his notebook back into his bag. “Thanks! You’re really good at comforting people.”

 

I smile, feeling my cheeks heat up at the sudden compliment. “Sure, anytime!”

 

We head to class and take our seats next to each other. We’re given as much time as we need for the test, and we can leave after we finish. I give Armin a thumbs up as we get our tests and he beams at me.

* * *

I spend a good 45 minutes working on my test. I double check and then even triple check to make sure I’ve got everything right. There are only a few of us left in class at this point; Armin left a while ago but he had looked pretty pleased. I sigh a bit, chewing on the end of my pencil as I finish checking the last of my answers before finally standing up and taking my test to the front, setting it on the desk, and grabbing my bag before heading out.

 

Sitting on a bench in the hall is Armin, swinging his legs that don’t quite seem to totally hit the floor.

 

“You waited for me?” I ask, puzzled as he looks up at me. He gets to his feet quickly and nods his head.

 

“Yeah, of course!” he replies as if it’s no big deal. For some reason, it makes my chest feel tight and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “How’d you do?”

 

“I think I did okay,” I tell him honestly. “How about you? You finished pretty quickly.”

 

“I don’t like to give myself time to doubt myself.”  We start walking down the hall together and I put my hands into my pocket and fish out my cell phone. There’s a new text from Jean but it’s just an “ok” reply from something I’d said earlier. “Well, it’s only seven so you still got out half an hour early!”

 

“Yeah, that’s true,” I say with a chuckle. “Do you work at that café tonight?”

 

“Yeah, I do. Why?” he asks curiosity filling his blue eyes.

 

I shrug my shoulders, putting my phone back into my pocket. “Maybe my roommate and I will stop by later,” I tell him and that makes him smile. I bet it’s nice to get visitors at work to talk to.

 

“Who are your roommates?”

 

We exit the building and pull our jackets closer to keep in the warmth. It’s dark out and the moon is shining brightly in the sky, though it’s only a half moon tonight. As I exhale, my breath is visible in the cold air and I put my hands into my pockets to keep them warm.

 

“Jean Kirschtein and Reiner Braun,” I reply and he looks a little shocked for a moment. “What?”

 

“It’s nothing! Just… I went to high school with Jean.”

 

“Really?” I ask, equally surprised. He seems like such a loner here on campus. Maybe he just doesn’t know that some people from his high school go here, too? “Does he know you go to school here, too?”

 

“Oh, we didn’t really talk much,” he replies with a shrug. “Different groups of friends. He didn’t really get along with my childhood friend.”

 

I frown at that, because that sounds more like the Jean that I know. The first day of knowing him and I was scared to even start a conversation, but once you get past those rough (more like jagged) edges, he’s really a great guy. At least, I find his company to be nice. He’s always got something to say and while his sense of humor is a bit dry, he’s pretty funny.

 

“That’s sort of sad,” I finally say, giving Armin a small smile. “He’s a good guy.”

 

Armin looks a little surprised, and I can only imagine the rumors that they must have made up for Jean in high school. It makes me feel sad for him, because it seems like even in college, he doesn’t have many friends to talk to.

 

“So, is the café a fun place to work at?” I ask, changing the topic because thinking of Jean being sad makes my chest feel so tight that I can’t stand it.

 

“Oh, yeah! It’s a great job while being at school because I get to know so many people,” he says with a big, bright smile on his face again. “You know, if you wanted, I could talk to my manager, Zoe and maybe get you a job.”

 

“That would be so great!” I stop walking just to look at him to make sure he’s not joking. When I find that he looks just as sincere as usual, I almost give him a big hug. “I’ve been looking for a job, actually! So far, nothing has really… come up. Until now, anyway!”

 

“Do you have some time right now?”

 

“Yeah, I’m all finished with classes for the day!” I reply eagerly, taking out my phone to send Jean a text.

 

**I’m going to be a little late tonight. Leave the dorm unlocked for me? :-)**

 

I put my phone back into my pocket and follow Armin to the food court. When we arrive, he heads straight for the café, which is the busiest out of all the food stands currently since there are probably students already planning on staying up all night to study and work on papers. It was only a matter of time before that would be me, studying for finals.

 

“Hang on, stay here for a minute. I’ll go get my manager!” Armin says, lifting the counter and stepping behind it. He rushes into the little office they have (which is more like a chair and desk with a computer on it).

 

A couple of moments later, a tall woman appears and when she sees me, a warm smile spreads across her face. I return it, wanting to make the best first impression that I possibly can. Her hair is a red brown color and it’s pulled up into a messy pony tail and her eyes are hidden behind glasses, but besides that, she’s wearing a similar outfit that I’d saw Armin wearing yesterday – all white with blue accents (though her shirt is blue while the rest of the people working are wearing all white).

 

“Hi, are you Marco Bodt?” she asks, leaning forward until she’s really close. Instinctively, I lean away a bit and offer another smile, though it’s a bit uncomfortable and tight on my face from her close proximity.

 

“Y-yes! It’s nice to meet you,” I say and offer my hand for her to shake.

 

She takes it firmly and gives it a good shake, which nearly rips my shoulder out of its socket. “I’m Zoe Hanji, it’s good to meet you, too, Marco!” She lifts the part of the counter that pulls back and motions for me to step forward. I do and she lets it fall shut behind me before taking me into the “office” where Armin is tying a blue apron around his waist. “Have you ever worked with coffee before?”

 

“W-well, I worked at a diner back home,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t know how to use the machines, but I catch on pretty quickly!”

 

“Good enough for me!” Zoe says, pulling up a screen on the computer. “Marco Bodt… what year are you, Marco?”

 

“Freshman,” I reply. “Did you need my class scheduling for this semester?”

 

“That would be great!” she tells me, typing quickly. “Do you live on campus or commute? What about a phone number that we can reach you at?”

 

I supply my phone number and write down my schedule for her as I say, “I live on campus. Rose Dormitory.”

 

“Ahhh, that makes everything easier! You can work more if you live here.”

 

I smile as she types up a few more things. Armin gives me a reassuring thumbs up before he heads out of the office to start working. I watch him go and wait patiently for Zoe to finish up with typing, but she keeps going and going. For five minutes I sit there waiting and I feel my face fall, because I’m not really sure what I should be doing. Did she forget that I’m standing here?

 

“S-so, how many people work here?” I ask, just to remind her that I’m still standing behind her in the doorway.

 

She jumps a little and looks at me over her shoulder. “Well, right now it’s just me, Armin and Sasha and now, you! The rest of the employees were seniors so they don’t work here anymore.”

 

“Oh,” I say.

 

“So you will be seeing quite a bit of the three of us!” she says excitedly, getting to her feet. “I’ll introduce you and show you around a bit! When can you start?”

 

“Whenever! I’m free whenever,” I reply and she grins at that, pulling me out of the office and around the corner to the front where the registers are. Armin is taking money and pushing buttons on it, giving the customer his change back while a girl (also wearing her brown hair in a similar style pony tail to Zoe) makes the drink. She’s talking animatedly to a bald-headed boy leaning against the counter.

 

After the girl sets the drink down for the customer, she starts talking louder to the bald boy.

 

“But I’m starving!” she’s saying, holding her belly. I pause, because for a moment, I hear a guttural noise that can only be coming from her growling stomach. “Please, Connie? I’ll pay you back just as soon as I get paid!”

 

“You’re always starving!” he says loudly, rolling his eyes. She pouts at him, sticking out her bottom lip and making strange, girlish noises that sound close to tears.

 

The bald boy – Connie – sighs and fishes into his pocket for his wallet. “Fine, but don’t say I never did anything nice for you!” he says, looking a little irritated. The girl cheers and leans forward to kiss his bald head, which makes his whole face (and head) turn red. “God, what are you? My mom?”

 

“Ahem!” Zoe says, making Armin and the girl and the other boy all look at her. “This is our newest addition to the team, Marco Bodt. Marco, this is Armin as you already know and Sasha.”

 

“And Connie!” the bald guy says loudly.

 

“You don’t work here,” Zoe says, looking genuinely confused.

 

“But I’m here often enough so he might as well know who I am,” he retaliates and Sasha giggles at him. She reaches into the cabinet in the back and pulls out a huge chocolate chip muffin.

 

“I’m buying this, Armin!” she announces, slamming some of Connie’s money on the counter.

 

Armin rings it up on the register and hands Connie his change as Sasha hops up on the counter and starts eating the muffin. She doesn’t even unwrap the bottom part first – she just takes a giant bite straight from the top. I stare for a beat longer than I should and only look away when Zoe starts showing me all the various machines and their labels.

 

From the corner of my eye, I see Sasha pull the muffin away when Connie tries to take a bite.

 

“Want a chocolate chip?” Sasha asks, taking a single one off the top of the muffin and holding it out. Connie’s eyes narrow as he looks at her.

 

“No,” he says, “I wanted a single bite, god.”

 

She frowns at this, looking between her friend and the muffin in her hands. “But… you gave me money to buy it for me,” she says slowly, blinking a few times. “So, it’s mine. You can buy another one if you want one.”

 

Armin chimes in and explains a few things that Zoe misses out on. There are a few machines, one for coffee, one for hot chocolate, and one for lattes. Then there are the different buttons (all labeled and hard to get confused about) about the various types of each you can get. Then in the cabinets are all the baked goods – bagels, muffins and even pop tarts.

 

“It’s not hard, Marco,” Armin says. “Don’t worry, I trained for a day and a half and had it all figured out and this is my first job. I’m sure you’ll be set and ready to go in just a few minutes of training on the register!”

 

I smile at him, happy to be working with someone like Armin. He’s just the kind of person you want to surround yourself with, because he’s always got something nice and positive to say. Especially because he’s a good balance between Sasha and Zoe who both are a bit less shy.

 

It’s nearing ten o’clock at night when I finally say my goodbyes to the crew. Zoe tells me to stop by after class tomorrow and I’ll work my first real shift and I can’t help but feel excited.

 

As I walk across campus in the dark, I pull out my phone. I’ve got a text from Jean from earlier that simply says “yea” in response to me asking him to leave the dorm unlocked. I decide to send him one now, just in case he might be worried because I didn’t tell him _why_ I was going to be late.

 

**I’m heading back to the dorm now.**

 

It’s a few seconds later that I hear a familiar ding sound in my hand. I open the new text and furrow my eyebrows in confusion.

 

**From Jean: don’t g o into that dorm**

**To Jean: Why not?**

 

I don’t get a reply. I keep walking, feeling a little creeped out about his response. As I approach the dorm building, I pull out my I.D card and swipe it to get inside. Christa is attending the front desk again and she offers a small wave as I pass by; I smile shyly and wave back on my way to the elevators.

 

As the elevator doors close, I hit the 4 button and wait. My phone makes a small ding sound and I pull it out just as the elevator reaches my floor. It’s from Jean, but I don’t even have to read it because as soon as the doors open, I can already see him.

 

**From Jean: srsly dude do not go intO THE DORM!!**

 

He’s sitting in the hall way near our dorm but sort of far from the door. He’s clad in his pajamas, too – blue, plaid pants and a t-shirt with his regular black lace-up shoes. In his lap is his laptop, which is open and shining a light against his face; but he’s more concerned looking at his phone, typing out a text message as fast as he can.

 

I get on a second later, before I can say anything to alert him of my presence.

 

**From Jean: theyre doing it again**

 

“Doing what again?” I ask, making him jump. His laptop falls from his lap and slides to the floor and his phone basically is thrown at me. I catch it, blinking a few times in shock, before I look down at him again. “Did you… just throw your phone at me?”

 

“I… you scared me!” he says, a flush changing the color of his cheeks to pink. He picks his laptop up and puts it back on his lap, giving me a scowl as I hand his phone back to him. “It’s your fucking fault. You shouldn’t be walking around here silently, it’s fucking creepy.”

 

I smile and kneel in front of him, raising my eyebrow. “So, why can’t I go into the dorm?” I ask and he pauses, giving me a look with wide eyes. “And more importantly, why are you out here?”

 

“Reiner and Bertholdt…” it’s all he can say.

 

“Seriously?” I say, feeling like I’m about to start laughing. But he just looks so embarrassed and unsure of how to react so I don’t, because I don’t want to make Jean feel bad.

 

“Listen for yourself.”

 

I can’t help it. I am intrigued, mostly because Jean had been so freaked out the last time that he’d called me at 2 in the morning. So, I lean my ear against the door, trying to contain my smile to keep from laughing, and wait.

 

At first, all I really hear is a distant slapping sound.

 

Then…

 

“AghHH, _shit Bert!_ ”

 

I pull away quickly, and look at Jean who is just watching me for my reaction. Then, I can’t help it and I start to laugh really hard. I cover my mouth to keep quiet so they don’t hear me inside the room (though they’re loud enough that I doubt they could) and I curl forward, trying to stop. I hear a few chuckles from Jean but he looks uneasy and nervous, like I’m broken or something.

 

“You should see your fucking face,” he says and this time he does laugh. He lifts his fancy phone up and snaps a picture to show me. I’m laying on the floor in the hall, one hand over my mouth and the other over my stomach and I’m curled in on myself. My whole face is the color of a red apple – so red that my freckles aren’t even visible.

 

“Oh,” I say, “my God.”

 

“Guess what’s going to be my new picture every time you call?” he says, still laughing a little as he presses a few buttons on his phone. “So, like I said, don’t go into the dorm, Marco.”

 

“Well, what do we do now?” I reply, leaning against the wall opposite to him.

 

Jean shrugs, closing his laptop and setting it back on the floor. He looks around the empty halls for a moment, thinking, before he looks at me again.

 

“I guess we can go hang out in the lounge downstairs,” he says with a shrug.

 

From where we sit, I hear a loud shout coming from our dorm. Jean and I both cringe and scramble to our feet; I help Jean with his blanket and laptop and we head to the elevators as a quick pace, putting as much distance between us and the dorm as we can.

 

When the elevator doors close, we find ourselves laughing again, both leaning against the wall opposite each other. “Jesus,” Jean says as he wipes at his watering eyes. “I can’t believe our luck.”

 

“I know,” I say between gasps as I struggle to catch my breath.

 

The lounge is empty, save for Christa at the front desk. She waves again, looking happy and friendly, and we both offer her a nod as we continue on our way. The lounge is a small, comfy area with a big TV and a video game console hooked up. Usually, it’s full of students hogging the TV time and using the computers that sit on the desk, but because it’s so late and everyone most likely has class tomorrow, it’s empty.

 

“What kind of shitty games do they got down here?” Jean mumbles as he starts looking through the collection. “Oh, here we go. SuperSmash Bros. This is the best game to ever grace the planet, Marco.”

 

“I’ve never played,” I admit as he puts it into the old game console and hands me a controller. “I… well, to be honest, I’m more of a board game kinda guy.”

 

Jean rolls his eyes as he sits down next to me on the beige couch. “Of course you are.”

 

I purse my lips, not sure if that was insulting or not, and try to familiarize myself with the strange contraption in my hand. It’s not like I’ve never played video games before – just that I didn’t have them growing up. Angelo and I were whizzes at cards and played with legos and games like monopoly. We didn’t really have the extra money to buy game consoles and the games to go with them.

 

We pick characters to play. I go with one of the very few that I actually know, Pikachu, and Jean goes with a character named Falcon.

 

Because I don’t really know what I’m doing, as soon as the game starts, I just run forward and press buttons, trying to figure out what each one does. Seconds later, Jean’s character flies into space.

 

“Did you really just fucking kill me?” Jean snaps, giving me a sharp look.

 

“I just pressed the A button and jumped at the same time!” I say and he scowls, turning back to the screen. I do the move again, giving him an instant kill and he growls in irritation which just makes me laugh. “Hey, I’m pretty good at this!”

 

“You’re just pressing buttons!” Jean shouts, shoving my shoulder as if this will keep me from destroying his character with a crazy thunderbolt attack. “FUCK!”

 

We play several more rounds of the game. Each time that I beat him, Jean gets more and more angry with me, though I just laugh it off. Somehow, he ends up with his legs wrapped around my neck after a failed attempt to strangle me with his feet, though I still managed to beat his character using Pikachu’s thunderbolts of death, despite the distraction and his smelly feet.

 

“I’m getting bored of this game,” I say as he hits ‘rematch’ again. “Can we play something else?”

 

“No! Not until I win.”

 

I sigh and as the game starts up, I decide to just let him win. Anything to get us to play a different game, or even just head back to the dorm. It’s been more than an hour and I’m so tired that I feel like I could sleep sitting up on the uncomfortable couch with Jean’s smelly feet still positioned next to my head.

 

When he wins, he chuckles and turns to me with the smuggest smirk on his face that I’ve ever seen.

 

“I fucking destroyed you,” he says and I snort. “What time is it?”

 

I start digging into my pocket for my phone as he lazily turns off the game. “Time for you to get a watch,” I joke and he looks at me with a look that I can’t even begin to really explain – narrowed eyes, scowl on his face but his lips are pulled back like he’s about to snarl at me. “Just kidding! Anyway, it’s almost 1 in the morning. We should probably head back now, huh?”

 

He sighs and finally lets his feet move back to the floor. “Yeah, probably.”

 

We clean up the lounge a bit before we head back to the elevators. At this point, there's a new guy sitting behind the desk with a textbook open in front of him, working on homework. We’re quiet as we make our way back to our room, pausing at the door to listen for any strange noises. But from inside, all we hear is snoring.

 

Slowly, we open the door and shut it, locking it before we get changed into our pajamas (or me, anyway). Then, we climb into our respective beds and turn out the lights.

 

“Hey, Marco?” Jean whispers through the darkness. I turn my head to look across the room at him, but I can only make out the basics of where his body and head is.

 

“Yeah?” I whisper back, pulling my covers up to my chin and tucking myself in.

 

“We should do that more often,” he says quietly after a moment. “It was fun.”

 

Slowly, a smile spreads across my face as I respond with a “Mhmmm.” Then, a few minutes later, I hear his soft snores coming from across the room and I know he’s fallen asleep.

 

I sigh as I roll onto my side, closing my eyes and letting sleep take over.

* * *

 “Hey, Mom.”

 

“Hi, honey,” she says, her voice quiet on the other end. It’s Tuesday afternoon and that means that it’s her day off for the week. I imagine her sitting by Angelo’s side in the hospital, holding his hand with her phone pressed to her ear as she talks with me, so far from home. I’m sitting on a bench on campus outside of the S. L. Library with an open textbook in my lap. “How are you?”

 

“I’m good! How about you? And how’s Angelo doing?” I ask immediately, biting my lip as I hear her laugh lightly.

 

“We’re both doing fine, Marco,” she tells me softly. “How’s school going?”

 

So I tell her (almost) everything. I tell her about my new friends, but mostly I talk about Jean a lot. I talk for a good fifteen minutes straight about him, and then I move on to talk about Armin and how he helped me get a job at the café. I promise that I’ll be sending money home soon to help her with the expenses and to ease her stress, but she tells me to stop worrying about that stuff. So I tell her about classes and that I really like them so far and that I’m doing really well.

 

I really tell her everything. The only thing I leave out is about Reiner and Bertholdt’s sexcapades in our dorm late at night.

 

“I’m so glad you’re having a good time,” she says, her voice honest and sincere. I smile, holding the phone closer to me, as if that will make her closer, too. “Are you coming home this weekend?”

 

“I actually have to work. There’s a little more training that I need to go through,” I reply, chewing my bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I wish that I could. I miss you guys.”

 

“We miss you, too, Marco.” She pauses and for a moment, it’s silent on both of our ends. Then, she says, “I think he’ll really miss hearing your college stories.”

 

My chest feels tight and I close my eyes. My stomach twists and I can’t help the sigh that escapes from between my slightly parted lips.

 

“I’ll come home soon. I promise.”

 

 


	4. start a fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack I love writing this story so much. It's just a big fluffy comedy for the most part and Jean is just such a dumbass... Anyway, please let us know what you think!! Thank you all so much for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments, it means a lot to us that you guys like it! :-)

In my mind, taking a piss outside the school is totally justifiable.

 

I mean, I’m in a hurry to get to the library where I’m supposed to meet Marco after figure drawing (which he had politely declined any further participation in as far as the modeling went, bless his soul) and since I still haven’t even set foot inside the library yet, I don’t have a clue where the bathrooms are.

 

It sounds like a good idea in my head, right now, as I’m unzipping my pants. In fact, it’s a great idea – the sun is shining, there’s a cool breeze, birds are tweeting, campus security guards eyeing me from the river dividing campus…

 

…Wait a second.

 

_Shit._

 

The old guy whose eyes peer at me across the way seem to narrow, and the second I catch his gaze with my own, he spirals off into a pit of rage and takes off running in my direction.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE YOU GODDAMN PERVERT?!”

 

 _He’s pretty fast for an ancient, ugly, bald dude pushing maximum density,_ is my first thought, which is so casual that I almost forget how much trouble I’m about to be in once he catches me…

 

 _If_ he catches me.

 

Really fast, I shake myself and zip my pants back up, throwing my backpack over my shoulder and immediately taking off into a sprint. The guy chasing me (who seems to have picked up a bit of momentum) is shouting stuff at me like ‘stop’ and ‘where do you think you’re going’ and a bunch of other typical catch phrases of the common security guard.

 

My heartbeat starts picking up as I run faster and faster, bolting through the doors to the library and taking off toward the elevators (or where I think they will be, seeing as how I’ve never been in here before) and totally nail their location with my amazing sense of direction because I’m just that great.

 

I start hitting the button pointed up, poking it at rapid-fire speed probably fifty times as my head flips back and forth toward where I just came from.

 

At the top of the elevator, the floor indicator reads “4” so clearly it’s not coming down anytime soon. I’m just wasting my precious time at this point.

 

Heavy breathing approaches around the corner and I know I fucked up – so I abandon my plan of using the elevator and bust through the doors to the stairs, rushing two-by-two up the steps and keep my eyes on the prize. The top floor is calling my name.

 

He’s shouting up to me from the bottom of the stairs, but he doesn’t let up the pace I set for him. Instead, he matches it, and the sound of his footsteps don’t fade.

 

“You better stop right there, punk!”

 

_So I’m a punk, huh. Groovy._

 

I’m breathing heavily and sweat is forming along my hairline. I bolt past a few girls focused more on talking on their phones and examining their nails than making it up the steps. Finally, I arrive at the fourth floor (nearly wheezing, like, wow, I am out of shape) and continue running toward the back corner of the library – as far away from this public safety douche’s line of vision.

 

The further I get from the front desk, the fewer people there are sitting or standing around. It’s easier for me to make a b-line to the corner that way.

 

I move a cart, which is stacked high with books and binders needing to be returned to their rightful place, and when I say ‘move’ I mean fling down an aisle and a half. My heel slips as I spin around the corner, taking it a bit too sharply for my own good, and I collide head-first with some poor guy wearing a hat and spectacles.

 

I fall on him so hard it probably knocks the wind out of him, and he gasps loudly before opening his mouth to say something.

 

“SHH!” I hiss, cupping a hand over his mouth as I hold him down from behind. It’s a safety maneuver, I swear, and anyway, I’ve seen it in loads of movies.

 

I can feel the guy saying something softly into my palm, and I probably wouldn’t even give him a second look if the way he mumbled didn’t hold such a familiar ring to it.

 

Leaning forward, I catch a familiar pair of dark brown eyes through the barrier formed by his prescription lenses.

 

“Are you fucking serious?” I whisper hastily, letting the guy go instantly and whipping around to face him. “What the _actual fuck!_ ”

 

Marco just looks back and me with wide eyes and a weird blush on his cheeks, though I suspect it was caused by the fact that I had grabbed him and pinned him against me like a human shield.

 

“What the heck is going on?” he whispers so quietly that the only way I’m able to tell what he’s saying is because of his annunciation.

 

I almost tell him that I will explain later because I’m kind of freaking out, but instead, I breathe a deep sigh that I hope will calm me and lean closer. Our noses almost touch and for a second, my heart beats faster, but when I crane my neck to whisper in his ear, the strange feeling dissipates.

 

“I was taking a leak outside and got caught by some security guard.”

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

“SHH!” I repeat. “He’s looking for me now, so you gotta keep quiet.”

 

As his eyes flash to meet mine, I can sense a sudden thought forming in his mind before he even opens his mouth. “Did he chase you here?” he asks.

 

I nod.

 

“I can’t believe you ran from campus security.” Marco absently shakes his head, closing his eyes – and from such a proximity, I can tell his eyelashes are long, and if there was enough time, I could count each individual freckle dotting his cheeks.

 

 _Wow, there’s more than I thought,_ I think, eyes narrowing as I become lost in thought for a moment.

 

“I almost want to laugh, but that’s just unfortunate,” Marco sighs. He glances once at me, then upward – though I can tell he isn’t looking for something on the ceiling. “Here,” he offers, pulling the hat (complete with a _fucking pom-pom_ ) off of his head and removes his glasses from the bridge of his nose. He holds both out to me like I’m supposed to know what he wants me to do with them.

 

“A disguise,” he says, then smiles brightly.

 

I pause for only a moment before taking what’s in his hands and grinning like an idiot. “Marco, you’re a genius.”

 

First I tug the hat on, and even though it looks like something a 5th grader would wear – from the long flaps on the sides to that dumb ass pom-pom on top that makes me inwardly cringe from the overload of cute – it definitely covers a lot. It smells funny, too, but not bad. A little like cinnamon.

 

Next I put the glasses on, and even though the prescription isn’t that different from normal vision, it’s enough to make my eyes hurt.

 

“They’re just reading glasses,” he whispers softly, then adds, “You should probably take your jacket off.

 

“Right,” I say, sliding off each sleeve with amazing speed. “Anything else?”

 

“Tuck your shirt in?” he offers, to which I scoff and roll my eyes heavily.

 

“I’m going to look like a jerk.”

 

“And what do jerks look like?”

 

I tuck in my shirt to humor him, pulling up my pants higher as I do so to demonstrate how weird my waistline looks after doing the ‘dad t-shirt tuck.’

 

“Kinda like this,” I say, standing back to show him as my arms stretch out wide at my sides. “Like a fuckin’ goon.”

 

“Well, you definitely don’t look like yourself anymore.” He pauses. “I’ll take your jacket back to the dorm; we can study another day.” He grabs my jacket from the place I flung it on the floor, folds it gently, and tucks it over his arm before standing up. He’s careful with it and for some reason that makes me happy… even if it is just a goddamn jacket.

 

“Thanks, Marco,” I say, reaching one arm across to grab him by the shoulder. It was a manly gesture – more like a ‘bro’ thing. His eyes meet mine – _still in a very non-homo way_ – and he smiles lightly.

 

_Thump-thump._

 

I take my hand back and make my way to the end of the aisle, peering out across the library as my eyes scanned for that fupa-packing campus security guard. I glance back once at Marco, give him a salute, and hastily make my way out of the library.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see the guy a couple of times, but I don’t get stopped because I look like a complete idiot now. It totally could have just been my eyes fucking with me, because I couldn’t see shit out of Marco’s reading glasses.

 

The trek across campus back to the dorms seems longer than usual because I’m internally regretting taking that piss outside – because now I have to sentence myself to the dorms while Marco studies at the library. Even though studying sounds like one of the most boring things to do, I realize that, somehow, I don’t care because at least I would have got to hang out with him for a little while.

 

I open the door to the room and find the place disturbingly quiet. As I walk to the couch and plop down, I sense that the room is completely empty. It’s weird for neither Reiner nor Bertholdt to be here.

 

At first it’s nice, because I wind up taking a much-needed nap on the couch and wake up at five o’clock, still alone; it’s really rare for me to get this much sleep, what with all the fucking that’s been happening that both Marco and I have been subjected to, and I keep myself up at night drawing or lost in thought about anything and everything. Mostly about home. I wonder if they miss me.

 

But after I wake up from the nap, it’s not nice at all, because I’m immediately hungry and bored and start texting Marco to bring some food over after he gets out of his second class. It’s irritating, sitting in blatant silence with no one to talk to and nothing to do. I wonder how I managed for so long before.

 

I get a quick reply back, but it’s short and sweet.

 

> **From: Marco**
> 
> Work tonight and am beyond broke. :-( Sorry Jean!

 

_Noooooooooooo._

 

I’m not even that hungry anymore, after reading his text. I’m mostly just disappointed because I have no idea what I’m going to do for the next few hours. Study? I don’t think so. Watch TV? Maybe.

 

At first I try playing Grand Theft Auto V to kill some time but it quickly looses its luster because Marco’s not around to add unhelpful commentary. I would even settle for Reiner or Bertholdt if either of them decided to show up, but I guess I don’t care enough to text them because I simply sit there in the dark, contemplating my next move.

 

And then it hits me. I know what I can do to kill some time – and Marco’s going to be so grateful he’ll be kissing my ass up and down when he gets home. Metaphorically, of course.

 

I sling my bag over my shoulder and duck out of the dorm.

* * *

 The supermarket doors glide open and I swipe up a shopping basket. _Eyes on the prize, Jean,_ I think. _You’re gonna stock that sucker’s pantry shelf so full of junk food that his sweet tooth is gonna be aching for a week._

 

First thing’s first: I head for the Pop Tarts and grab four boxes of Strawberry. That should make up for that little incident that happened a few weekends ago. Then I hit up the chips, muffins, cookies, cereal, and grab the biggest jug of Neapolitan ice cream I can find. It doesn’t fit in the basket so I carry it like a little purse. A little manly purse. Manliest purse of your life.

 

The candy aisle beckons me and I fight the urge to just drag my arm along the shelf and shove the whole lot in the cart. I rethink this and stand back, carefully deciding what kinds Marco would like. In the end I go with Sour Patch kids, Peanut M+Ms, Kit-Kats, and a whole shit ton of Lindt Truffles. One of every flavor should do the trick.

 

The elderly lady who checks me out gives me this weird look like I’m fucking with her or something, but I flash her a smile like I totally know what I’m doing and she just raises her eyebrows.

 

 _Oh, no, madam. It’s not_ my _teeth that are going to be rotting from all this sugar. It’s that sweet, precious little freckled prophet working his freckled little butt off at work right now, probably getting really tired and wanting to just go home and sleep, or do anything else besides work because that’s not fun at all._

 

Whoops. I made myself sad toward the end of that train of thought, but quickly shake my head and clear the pity away so I’m not miserable on Marco’s behalf.

 

It isn’t until I’m riding the train back to campus with my two giant paper bags full of shit for my roommate that I find myself wondering why I’m even doing this in the first place. Yeah, Marco’s a great guy, and yeah, he’s probably the first person who I have been able to consider a friend in a long time, but why am I going so far out of my way just to do this stuff for him? Why am I spending all this money on this kid who already has a job? What is in it for me?

 

And then I realize – as I unlock the door to our still-empty dorm room, that it isn’t even about me. It’s about the look on his face when he sees all this shit I got him, because he’s probably going to be so stoked – like, _majorly_ fucking stoked.

 

…But he probably wouldn’t mind if I helped myself to a couple chips in the meantime. After all, he won’t be back for a few more hours.

* * *

There’s the distant sound of a door creaking open and a slight stumble of feet tripping over shoes on the welcome mat. A jingle of keys follows soon after; the flicker of a light switch illuminates the area in front of my sealed-shut eyelids. I’m just starting to wake up, but I’m trapped in that space between sleep and lucidity, so even though a part of me senses the sights and sounds around me, I can’t bring myself to open my eyes.

 

 _Just keep sleeping, Jean,_ I think, subconsciously rolling over a little on the couch, underneath the warmth of the blanket covering me.

 

A small click slips in one ear and out the other, and suddenly there’s a presence. I can feel it looming over me, soundless, but even the quiet of their breath is perceivable, and my body starts to awaken.

 

I flicker one eye open, somehow tired even after my second nap of the day. There’s a shape in front of me, tall, well-built, and familiar.

 

A groan escapes my lips. _Why am I so tired._

 

“Jean,” they whisper.

 

My other eye opens, but everything’s blurry from the sudden lightness and surrounding silence. I remember a TV being on – but that probably explains the clicking sound. They turned off the television.

 

“Hnn,” I heave. The sleep is heavy in my eyes. “M-Marco?”

 

“You’re covered in crumbs,” he says, laughing a little. My eyes focus and I see his eyes closed, one hand pressed to his mouth as he tries to hold back from laughing even louder. “What the heck is going on?”

 

“Are you home from work?” I ask.

 

He looks at me humorlessly then. “Home?” he echoes. Maybe he’s wondering if he can call this place his home or not. It’s more of a home to me than anyplace else, so I guess it’s more natural for me to think of it as such. Marco, on the other hand, holds a lot of weight in that word.

 

“Yeah, for now, I’m home,” he says finally, sitting down on the end of the couch, his back grazing my feet. I notice he’s wearing my jacket, but I don’t say anything.

 

He lifts the bag from my chest – wait, I fell asleep with a fucking bag of potato chips on top of me? – and rolls the top of it down before securing it with a rogue chip clip.

 

That reminds me.

 

“Oi, Marco,” I start, squinting again through the light which seems brighter now without him blocking the source of it, “did you see what I got you on the shelf?”

 

He’s quiet as he turns his head in the direction of our pantry, and it only takes a second before his eyes light up. I try and commit this to memory, because it really is all about the look on his face, and how he just looks so pumped about the fact that _there’s something around here to eat finally._

 

Marco crosses the room and lifts his fingertips to the shelf with his name on it. “Four boxes of Pop Tarts?” he asks quietly, looking back over his shoulder at me.

 

I nod. “There’s ice cream in the mini-freezer, too.”

 

“Why?”

 

“‘Why,’ what?”

 

One look at him and I understand what he’s asking me – the same thing I was wondering on the train ride back to campus. But I don’t even think before the words leave my mouth.

 

“Because you’re my best friend.”

 

He blinks twice at me.

 

“I mean,” I cough, suddenly _way_ more awake now that I made myself sound like an _idiot,_ and sit upright on the couch. A shit-ton of crumbs fall off me and I reach up to wipe my mouth. It’s a little greasy. God, I’m a fucking slob. “You don’t have any money, so it was the least I could do. Which still doesn’t make any sense to me because you work all the goddamned time and all I can do is sit around at home and watch dumb TV shows by myself and eat all the food I just bought you, and-“

 

“Jean,” he cuts me off, “you’re rambling.”

 

I breathe in deeply because I’m all out of breath from talking so quickly, and just reply, “Yeah,” dumbly.

 

Marco leans his back up against the door. “Thanks Jean. I really mean it.” And the sincerity in his voice tells me that he does. Then I notice he’s holding one of the boxes of Pop Tarts, and my eyes flicker down to his fingers that are starting to slide open the cardboard top.

 

“Don’t mention it,” I reply disinterestedly, standing up and letting the blanket fall off me in a fuzzy heap on the floor.

 

The crinkle of Pop Tart paper sliding out of the box fills the gap between us and, after setting the box on his shelf, Marco looks to me. He holds up the little package and takes a step forward.

 

“Want one?”

 

I can’t help it as a smile creeps up onto my face.

 

“Sure.”

* * *

I wake up the next day and it’s just another ordinary, boring day. The sun is gleaming, birds outside are tweeting, and the holier-than-thou voices of Stacy and Clinton preaching what women shouldn’t wear is coming from the living room. My first thoughts are: _What a painfully boring life I happen to be living._

 

…And then I hear Marco’s soft snores coming from his bunk across the room – I remember the Reibert sexcapades and how I had his poor, freckled head in a crotch-lock during Super Smash Bros, then quickly retract that statement. It might not be the most exciting in the world, but my life sure as hell isn’t boring. At least, not lately.

 

My eyes search for Marco through the dim light.

 

“Hey,” I groan, leaning halfway out of bed so that my arms dangle down the bunk bed’s support poles. “Wakey-wakey.”

 

The freckled beauty slowly turns onto his side, slits his eyes open, and with a yawn replies, “Eggs and bake-y?”

 

“Nope,” I sigh, fighting with my eyelids to keep them from falling down over my eyes in exhaustion. “No ‘eggs and bake-y’ today. Or ever. We don’t have a stove.”

 

“Life is meaningless,” he sighs, then rolls back over.

 

I sit up a little and pull a sock off my foot, tossing it across the room with a mighty heave and watch as it lands on his side. “We’re gonna be late for class.”

 

Marco glances over his shoulder, eyeing the sock perched on his waist, and shudders. “Gross.” After a moment of silence, he sits up in bed as well and stretches his arms high above his head and yawns loudly. His muscles are taut and as his neck cranes, I can see the sharp outline of his jaw jutting from his neck.

 

I shake my head. _Quit being a weirdo._

 

“Shouldn’t _you_ be the one trying to get _me_ up in the morning?” I say as I pull the other sock off my foot, because it’s uncomfortable wearing just one. “Like, this is probably a once-in-a-lifetime moment we’re experiencing right now.”

 

“I had to work late last night,” he says groggily, “remember?”

 

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted a job for some weird reason.”

 

“Because having money is weird,” he deadpans.

 

I narrow my eyes at him. “You sure are quick for it being so early, Freckles.” But even through slitted eyes, I can make out a smile on his lips. I think he likes the nickname, even if he doesn’t admit it.

 

“My stomach hurts,” he groans, his hands falling to his stomach to cup the tiniest pouch of fat. “Why did you buy so much candy, Jean?”

 

“Why did you _eat_ so much candy, Marco?” I retort. “I bought you enough so it would be like an investment in your future! Like all those shelves full of shit they have on that fuckin’ coupon master show Bertholdt always makes us watch.”

 

“Extreme Couponing,” he supplies.

 

“Yeah, that one.”

 

He laughs. “They’re called stockpiles.”

 

“Know-it-all.”

 

“Grouchy-pants.”

 

“Poop wagon.”

 

“Buttface.”

 

The sound of a foot kicking the other side of our wall startles me, but Reiner’s voice soon clarifies its source.

 

“Quit arguing in there or I’m going to have to come in there and beat both your asses.”

 

I roll my eyes and simultaneously roll out of bed, landing on the floor with a precision attained over the past few weeks of practicing getting out of bed – although one of the tries was an accident in which I had actually just fallen out of bed on my own accord. I strode across the room and flicked on the light switch, threw on a hoodie and a pair of faded jeans, checked my face quickly in Marco’s football sticker-covered mirror near his dresser, and waited for his prissy ass to get ready.

 

“How hard is it to pick something out to wear?” I say after probably five minutes of Marco’s freckled ass sifting through his closet for, like, the _perfect_ shirt to go with his khaki pants.

 

“I’m looking for something,” he tells me pointedly. “Ah, here it is.”

 

I look over at what it is he pulls out, and it doesn’t seem like anything special. Just a plain, button-up denim shirt. Marco sure does make a big deal out of pretty much nothing – but I guess the guy likes to dress nice, or at least, his tastes are really particular. He slips his sleeping t-shirt over his head and I glance quickly over his back, which isn’t really anything new to me seeing as how I’ve seen him naked and whatnot, but I see his shoulder blades rotate as he goes to take the denim shirt off its hanger and force my eyes away.

 

 _There’s nothing weird about appreciating a strong set of shoulder muscles,_ I tell myself, and think nothing more of it.

 

“Ready to go?” he asks, but already seems to know the answer as he tugs on his usual blue sweater and picks up his backpack off the floor. The straps tug roughly and I can tell how heavy it must be to carry it all on his shoulders. My guess is that there’s probably three more medical books stuffed in there.

 

I feel a dull ache in my shoulders as I imagine the weight of it all.

 

“Took you long enough,” I sigh, heading out into the living room and walk past the television without batting an eyelash. Reiner’s lounging on the couch in his boxers, engrossed in some talk show featuring a bunch of women all seated around a table. Whoopi Goldberg’s distinct raspy voice catches my ears and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. _How the fuck does he watch this shit and actually enjoy it?_

 

“Be back later, Reiner,” Marco says softly.

 

“Be good, little man,” he replies, like he’s his dad or something, sending him off to school with all but a bagged lunch. Which gets me thinking.

 

“Reiner and Bertholdt are kind of like the gay dads we never had,” I say to Marco as we walk across campus toward the Garrison Building for Chemistry.

 

He laughs. “They’re a little like mentors, I guess.”

 

“In what way? Besides the fact that they’re, like, super dad-ly for being our age.”

 

Marco doesn’t say anything, he just shrugs and tugs his backpack forward. I glance once at him out of the corner of my eye, noticing a faint blush start to creep across his cheeks. One of my eyebrows quirks upward, wondering what the hell that’s all about, but just as I’m about to say something about it, he cuts me off and starts talking about Chemistry. _Nice save, you sneaky brat._ I guess if he doesn’t want to talk about it, then he doesn’t have to, and I’m not going to force it out of him, but whatever was on his mind sure did peak my interest.

 

We finally get to class, just as it’s about to start, and notice that everything is set up for our first actual lab; we had learned all the preliminary junk already in weeks prior, and now it looks as though we get to finally use the stuff.

 

Marco sheds his sweater and I roll up the sleeves of my hoodie before rubbing my hands together.

 

“Ready to cook up some meth today?” I ask Marco jokingly, lifting a beaker up to examine it closer. It’s full of a suspicious green liquid, pre-measured, which I swish around aimlessly and watch as it starts to bubble up a little.

 

“Don’t shake that!” Marco says quickly, throwing his bag to the floor as he flashes forward, reaching his hands around mine, taking the vial back from me. Some strange electric shock passes from his fingers to the place where he touched me. Goddamned static electricity.

 

I sigh loudly, leaning back on my stool with my eyes pointed toward the ceiling like a child who was just chastised by their mother. “You’re so _goody-goody._ ”

 

“I’m just saying you don’t know what it is yet,” he says gently, placing it back on the holding rack. “And I’m not a ‘goody-goody.’ I’m just waiting to get the directions, Jean.”

 

“Like I said: a goody-goody.”

 

He stares at me coolly. “You sure have called me quite a few names this morning, Jeanny boy. Better watch it.”

 

I imitate the sound of a cat snarling and say something like “wow, the kitten’s got some claws” but probably not that articulately because he just looks off into the distance with his chin in the palm of his hand.

 

After a minute of quiet, I poke him in the arm. My eyebrows are furrowed and I don’t look right at him. “Don’t be mad. I was only kidding.”

 

“I’m not mad,” he says softly. “Just a little nervous is all. I know my medicine facts, I’m just not all that great with the whole ‘concocting’ thing.”

 

“‘Concocting,’” I repeat. A laugh bubbles from my throat which earns me a look. “Like a witch or something. That’s all it really is though, right? Just mixing shit together. How hard can it be?”

 

Marco nods once, smiling at me a little – and at once, he seems to perk up a little. Maybe, even if it was only just a tiny bit, I managed to cheer _him_ up for once.

 

Suddenly the door shuts, slamming a little as it does, and Pixis walks into the room. He calls us all to attention and I watch as everyone seems to sit up a little straighter – even I do, even if I don’t really want to. He’s just a really intimidating guy, so you really have to do everything you can if you want to make the grade. Sitting up straight included.

 

He immediately gets one of the kids in the front of the room to start handing out packets filled with detailed instructions on how to complete our first lab, but we’ve been prepped with numerous examples on this kind of stuff so I’m not really worried. In fact, I’m ready to make some shit with all these chemicals sitting out all over the place.

 

Marco’s eyes are so focused on the words he’s saying that I almost forget I’m supposed to be paying attention, too. He’s just really attentive and it’s kind of inspiring a little, even if that _is_ a stupid way to put it. It makes me want to do well, too.

 

When we’re finally released from Pixis’ long, drawn-out explanation of the lesson at the beginning of class. I flip through the first few pages of the packet and start instructing Marco on what to get set-up: one liter of water, one cup of baking soda, and the Bunsen Burner. He flicks it on with ease and the glow of a flame begins to heat the metal ring around the top. I instruct him to set the small square of chinked metal atop the ring and to then place the supplied metal bowl on top of that.

 

“Okay, but then what are we supposed to do with this?” he asks, holding up some strange looking instrument that clearly isn’t listed in our instructions.

 

I shrug. “Maybe we should ask?”

 

Marco gulps, and for good reason too, because this bald-headed dick wad is a royal asshole if I’ve ever met one. But Marco’s a brave one and offers to go and ask for us.

 

By the time Marco makes his way to the front, I notice that there’s a line already formed by students confused by the lesson. Marco just so happens to be dead-last, which causes my face to fall and my eyelids to droop. This whole thing is making me feel really sleepy. It’s going to be a long-ass time before Marco gets our simple question answered, especially since some dweeb named Thomas is up there reading off a list of questions because I guess he just doesn’t know how to follow directions.

 

My eyes glaze over a little and I subconsciously start playing with the sleeve of Marco’s sweater, sitting on the table in a messy pile. I fuck with the arm hole, picking a little at one of the threads I notice to be poking out of the normal weave of the fabric, and then my fingers trickle down the seam until they arrive at the cuff at the end of the right sleeve.

 

He sure does have long arms. Like, longer than I realized. I stretch one sleeve down the length of the table, bending down a little to match my shoulder with the shoulder of the sweater and holding my arm out to guesstimate roughly how small I am in comparison. The tips of my fingers barely reach the cuffs, which are probably a good three inches tall.

 

I guess I just never realized how much taller Marco was than me.

 

As my thoughts start to wander, I lose my grip on the sleeve and stop paying attention to it – more specifically, its proximity to the Bunsen Burner.

 

There’s a sudden _woosh_ that brings me back to reality, snaps me from my reverie, and once I realize what it is that made that noise, my eyes go so fucking wide it’s unbelievable. Like, they practically bug out of my head and I have to just sit there for a moment in sheer disbelief of what I actually just did.

 

There, sitting on the black slate countertop at the very edge of the burner is the sleeve of Marco’s sweater. And all at once, the cuff goes up into flames.

 

My eyes snap to the front of the room, instantly searching for Marco. He’s talking to Pixis animatedly, waving his hands all about as the old fart just gives him this mean look down the bridge of his nose. Him and his stupid-as-hell mustache.

 

At any rate, neither Marco nor Pixis are looking in this direction, which gives me time to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do because _holy shit you just set your best friend’s jacket on fire you motherfucking idiot._

 

I look both directions once more to check for peering eyes, of which I find none (thankfully) and gracefully slide the sweater into the sink in one quick gesture. My eyes glance nonchalantly up at the ceiling as my hands find the cold water faucet and twist the knob harshly to the right.

 

_Fwoooosh._

 

The flame is out as soon as it the water breaches the singed fabric. _Wow, not only did you just set his sweater on fire, but you almost burnt down the entire fucking school. Excellent job, Kierschstein. Wow. Just great._

 

I look from the sink to where Marco stands at the front of the room, finally turning away from Pixis and heading back in the direction of our table. _Oh, shit! He’s going to find his burnt sweater and he’s gonna be pissed! You better think quick and –_ just as I’m about to think ‘burn the evidence,’ I catch Marco’s gaze from fifty feet away and do the first thing my instincts tell me to do.

 

Removing the sweater from the sink, I bundle it up in front of me, fold my arms out across it, and try to stick the most innocent expression on my face I can muster.

 

But the second Marco walks up, he can tell something’s wrong.

 

He points to the sweater under my arms. “What’s going on there with my sweater?” he asks, hitting the nail right on the head.

 

I falter for a split second, then manage, “I wanted to use it as a pillow.”

 

He stares at me unblinkingly, as if trying to decide if I’m really telling the truth or not.

 

“Okay,” he says, probably giving me the benefit of the doubt. This poor soul. He then sniffs the air, repulsion distinctly etched in his features. “Eugh,” he grunts, “what is that smell?”

 

“I don’t smell anything,” I say quickly. His eyes flash back over to me, narrowing them this time as I cough into my fist and look away. “Do you smell something? Because I certainly do _not_ smell anything.”

 

This time, Marco’s got me. Maybe I said too much. Maybe I denied it too quick. Probably both if I’m being honest. But whatever the case may be, he knows I’m hiding something.

 

“What’s going on, Jean?” he asks. “For real.”

 

“No bullshit?” I ask, hoping that by some chance of fate he might accept the bullshit I am fully prepared to spill.

 

“No bullshit.”

 

We’re both quiet for a second before I sigh, lifting my now-damp sleeves off his clearly soaked jacked. It smells a little like burnt campfire and he scrunches his nose up at it.

 

“I left you alone for five minutes,” Marco groans, sliding the drippy mess of what was once his trusted sweater across the table to more closely examine. “Is… is the sleeve of this _burnt_?”

 

“I’m sorry!” I shout suddenly, throwing my arms down on the table flat as my forehead meets the slate. “I was just looking at it because I was bored and it got caught on the Bunsen Burner I think, and-“

 

“You ‘think’?” he repeated.

 

“I only say ‘I think’ because I was kind of spacing out when it happened.” I’m talking so fucking fast at this point that I probably sound delusional. “But I swear to God I didn’t mean to and I’ll take you shopping over the weekend and buy you a new one _I promise._ ”

 

“Woah, Jean,” he laughs a little, looking at it once more before bundling it back up and taking it briskly to the garbage can. “It’s okay, it was kind of an old sweater anyway.”

 

Something in his tone leads me to believe otherwise. It didn’t look too worn out, even though there _were_ a few frayed threads, but that was probably just because he got it somewhere cheap.

 

“I’m going to get you a good one,” I tell him straight, “even better than that one, okay?”

 

“It’s really fine-“ he starts to say, but I interrupt.

 

“Don’t, okay?” I say, but my voice seems a little hushed because this time, I want him to take what I’m saying seriously and not just brush it off. Because this time, it’s a little bit more than a box of Pop Tarts I’ve got to replace. It’s a fucking sweater. A sweater that I burned the sleeve off of. “Just let me replace it, alright?”

 

He looks at me, staring a moment longer, then lets a smile spread slowly across his lips. “Whatever you say, Kierschtein.”

 

“You’ve still got that jacket of mine I gave you the other day, right?” I ask. “The one I took off at the library because that douchewad was chasing me.”

 

“Because _you_ thought it would be cool to pee outside,” he says, laughing. “Yeah, I still have it, but it’s just hanging up in our dorm… Why?”

 

“Keep it,” I say, making him stare blatantly back at me with bug eyes. “At least, until I get you something new to wear. It’s getting a little chilly, you know.”

 

“Don’t you need one?” he asked, his voice filled with uncertainty.

 

“I’ve got a bunch of other hoodies,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

 

We’re silent except for the sound of my fingers haphazardly flipping through the packet’s pages. I don’t really have anything else to say, except maybe that I’m sorry again, but then I run the risk of sounding redundant or like a record skipping, so I don’t say anything at all. He can tell I’m sorry. At least, I think he can.

 

“You know,” he says finally, “for being someone’s best friend, you sure do mess with my stuff an excessive amount.”

 

Now it’s my turn to stare at him, shocked at the fact that he called _me_ his best friend, too. Of course I haven’t forgotten about the fact that the other night, I accidentally let it slip that I considered him as close enough to me to call him my best friend. And, really, I hadn’t really cared all that much about him saying it back, but just now, as the implications leave his lips, I can’t hold back the dumb, cheesy smile that splits my mouth open.

 

“That’s what I do best.” 


	5. say you like me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love and attention, you guys! We're definitely feeling it! (': <3  
> Hope you like this chapter. I worked really hard on it!

It happens on a Wednesday.

 

I’m sitting in the dorm on the floor between our beds with all three of my medical textbooks open and papers scattered around. Jean is sitting at the desk with the giant gallon of Neapolitan ice cream and a spoon hanging out of his mouth, working on a new sketch for one of his art classes. It’s been like this for the past two hours – quiet with just the two of us, and both of us busy with homework.

 

I sigh, running a hand through my hair, trying to get a grip. But have two essays due by tomorrow at midnight and a chapter test in class, I feel like I’m about to lose whatever sanity I thought I still had.

 

“If you keep sighing,” Jean says without looking at me, “I swear to god I will throw this ice cream at you.”

 

“I-I’m sorry!” I reply quickly, a little startled actually. Then I think for a moment and realize that I’ve been sighing non-stop for two hours and I blush a little. “I didn’t realize it was bothering you.”

 

Jean turns in his seat now, looking at me with a quirked eyebrow.

 

“I never would have thought _you_ would be a procrastinator like the rest of us, Freckles,” he says and I can’t help but laugh a little.

 

“Not so much, but it’s been kind of hard for me to adjust,” I tell him honestly with another sigh. He lifts the ice cream and I laugh, holding my hands up to protect myself. “I’m sorry! Please don’t!”

 

He chuckles now and sets it back down, scooping up some ice cream on his spoon. “Well it is the first semester, and you _are_ working a job while taking like 16 credits,” he says with a nod. “Why the fuck are you doing all of that, again?”

 

“I just have to,” I reply as if this will answer everything.

 

Jean and I have gotten really close over the past month and a half. He may be surly and sour with a bad attitude and a trucker’s mouth, but he’s the closest I’ve felt to family in Trost, so far away from my actual family. But somehow, I still can’t bring myself to tell him about Angelo and the accident that landed him in the ICU in the hospital four months ago.

 

I think it’s more of the fact that I don’t like to talk about it than anything. Whenever I think about Angelo, my heart feels like someone is squeezing it and it’s hard to breathe. I tell myself that this must have been what it felt like for him before he blacked out and was gone.

 

“Marco? Earth to Marco!”

 

I blink a few times, seeing Jean’s hand waving in my face. He’s rolled his chair over and is now sitting just a few feet from me, leaning over to look at my face so close that I can see flecks of green and brown in his eyes that I normally wouldn’t.

 

“Wh-what?” I sputter, pulling back a little feeling a flush creep up the back of my neck.

 

“You were zoning out,” he says with a shrug. “You okay, man?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking, is all.”

 

He nods, understanding, and turns to go back to his sketchbook. Looking down at my homework all spread around me, I decide to take a short break and I get up, moving to sit on my bed corner, closest to the desk.

 

“So,” I say, drawing out the ‘o’ at the end until he looks at me, “can I see some of your drawings?”

 

Now it’s his turn to sigh as he looks back to his sketchbook then to me again skeptically. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I’m not great and it’s kind of embarrassing.”

 

“Jean Kirschtein admitting that he isn’t great at something?” I joke, putting a hand over my heart and heave a dramatic gasp. “I have _got_ to see it then!”

 

“Shut up,” he says but it’s lost in his laughter, “god.”

 

I laugh, too and reach around him, taking the sketchbook before he can really say no. I hold it open on my lap and look at him and he finally gives me the okay nod and I flip it open to the first page. He leans over, watching my face for reactions.

 

The first sketch is of a really pretty girl with long hair and she’s wearing a wedding dress that flows until the bottom of the page. She’s looking over her shoulder at me, a smile crinkling her eyes that are shaded in nicely to look like they are a pretty light color. The date at the bottom, next to his messy signature, is from May.

 

“Wow,” I say, having not actually expected for it to be so good. “This is amazing, Jean.”

 

He smiles then, his whole face lighting up as if I’d just given him a puppy on Christmas morning. “Really, you think so?” he asks, chewing on his lip as if he’s nervous that I’m sitting here looking at his drawings – like I’m seeing a piece of him that he doesn’t often let show.

 

“Are you kidding me?” I reply, nudging his shoulder. “It’s awesome. I wish that I could draw half as good as you do.”

 

He smiles and points to the picture. “It’s my sister. She got married last May and she just looked so happy in this picture. She wasn’t really that happy of a person a lot, you know? So it was rare for her to smile.”

 

“Sounds like you,” I say and he rolls his eyes. “She’s really pretty. You guys don’t really like that much alike, though.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” he replies. “She’s my half-sister.”

 

I nod at this, recalling the first day in Chemistry when Jean had told me he didn't have any siblings. I decide not to ask though, and instead flip through some more pages. There are a few doodles of crazy looking people with huge eyes and large bodies and sharp teeth – he says he just imagined them before and it creeped him out so he drew it. I move on quickly enough, thoroughly creeped out myself, and there are a few drawings of robots and mechanical things.

 

“This is like, a futuristic robot,” Jean says, pointing out several distinct features. “It can use this like a chainsaw and hack at people, you know, the bad guys. And this cool thing down here gives it a no-gravity shield where it can basically fly everywhere and shit. Pretty badass, right?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, looking it over some more. My eyes move from the paper to his face, so excited as he talks about his drawings and little stories of how he came to draw them or why they exist and how. He’s so passionate about it that I can’t imagine how I hadn’t known he loved art so much. “This is really great, Jean. You’re really talented.”

 

He looks up at me and we’re so close that our noses almost touch. We both blink and awkwardly pull away, laughing a little to lighten the mood.

 

But my chest feels strange and my stomach is doing back flips. My breathing feels weird and I have to work to calm myself down and I can’t stop thinking about how he has those little flecks of color in his eyes and how his nose had been so close to mine and then his hand accidentally touches mine as he moves to turn the page and I feel like my skin is on fire.

 

It’s all I can do not to start hyperventilating right there.

 

“Oh, god,” he says as his cheeks turn a rosy pink color.

 

I look at the sketch he’d flipped to and whatever I’d been feeling strangely about dissolves into laughter. It’s a sketch from when I did that modeling job for his class – though I _swear_ I didn’t know it was that kind of modeling! – and it’s me sitting in the middle of the class looking rather pensive with a blush on my cheeks and my body naked.

 

“Oh my god,” I say in response as I stare down at my naked self. “You really focused on my butt freckles, Jean.”

 

Jean laughs and shoves me a little, his cheeks now a full red color. “It was better than focusing on your junk!” he says and a little spit flies out at me. “I cannot fucking believe you did that. What a great way to get to know your roommate.”

 

“I had no idea you would be there! Or that I would be naked,” I add at the end and we both laugh now. “But even this makes me look pretty good. Do I really have this many freckles?”

 

“No, I just started drawing them in to avoid looking at you,” he replies with a shrug. “But your ass is real. There were literally that many freckles. How do you have so many?”

 

“I have no idea,” I reply. “I didn’t even realize I had so many.”

 

For the next twenty minutes, I go through his sketchbook, pausing at each picture to let him tell me a story about it. Jean may be sour, but he’s got this crazy imagination into this whole other world that he can see into as clear as a picture.

 

I start to notice small things about every picture he draws. Like at the bottom of the page, his signature is always as messy as his normal handwriting is, but the pictures are drawn with such accuracy and  precision. And I also start to notice that when he cuts in to tell me about the inspiration for whatever sketch I’m looking at, how excited he gets when he tells me. I must be the first person that he’s let into his mind like this, sharing this other world that he sees.

 

Our fingers brush against each other a few more times, leaving flames behind at his touch. My skin feels like pins and needles, like when your foot falls asleep from sitting on it for too long. My stomach does somersaults and I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not.

 

“Say, Marco,” Jean says suddenly, stopping the story about these large creatures with human like faces that are always contorted into creepy, happy expressions.

 

“Hmmm?” I murmur, still looking at the picture.

 

“Do… do you think that, maybe, there could be like an alternate universe out there, somewhere?”

 

“What do you mean?” I ask, now looking at him and meeting his eyes. We’re so close that I can smell the strawberry from the ice cream he’d been eating earlier, but this time, neither of us move.

 

“Like this other universe where we have twins of ourselves,” he explains. “Like somewhere right now, there is another you in a different world, doing something different than you are right now.”

 

I think about this for a moment. It seemed like something that I had heard before, much like that story of birthmarks being ways that you died in your past lives. But I hadn’t really ever thought about that sort of stuff, so now that Jean’s asking what I think, I realize I don’t even have an opinion.

 

“What do you think our other selves are like?” I ask, pulling my knees up onto the bed with me and wrapping my arms around them. “I mean, do you think we’re best friends in this other universe?”

 

“Hell yeah, we are!” Jean grins at me and I can’t help but smile back, because his are so rare and few so whenever he does, I feel like it’s the best sight ever. “We’re best fucking friends in any universe, Marco. But I bet we’re like, kickass spies or some shit in one.”

 

“Maybe we’re firefighters in one!” I say excitedly and he laughs. “Or we could be astronauts, flying around Earth right now, having this exact conversation and wondering what we’re like down here.”

 

“Whoa,” he says, blinking a few times. “That would be crazy.”

 

“It would,” I agree with a nod of my head.

 

He’s put his sketchbook back on the desk and we’re just sitting there, facing each other and talking for what feels like forever. We make up different scenarios for different universes – but one thing remains a constant in all of them: we’re always best friends.

 

By the time eight o’clock rolls around and Reiner is coming back into the dorm with Bertholdt behind him, Jean and I decide to get back to work. I sit back on the floor to study more and organize my papers and he goes back to his newest sketch – the only one he wouldn’t let me see. At least, not until it’s all finished.

 

It’s a Wednesday night, like any other. Except one thing is different, one small shift that has changed everything drastically. At least, in my eyes, it has.

 

I’m starting to _like_ , like Jean Kirschtein.

* * *

 After a few weeks, working in the café is like second nature to me.

 

I spent the first two shifts training, though I breezed through it, and then I was able to run the whole stand on my own if I had to (which I didn’t because Zoe hovers a lot). Most of the time, there are two of us working (and more often than not, Zoe is one of the two), so I start to get to know my other co-workers fairly well.

 

Whenever I work with Zoe, I find that she’s kind of a spaz, so I handle the register while she makes the drinks and throws – literally! – muffins at me to hand off to the customers. Working with her makes time go by really fast, but I also feel the most tense with her, because she is my boss and I have to always be on my toes.

 

Working with Armin is the best. When it’s busy, we flip around who makes drinks and who takes orders that way, neither of us gets bored doing one thing. When it’s slow, we study our vocabulary for the Medical Terminology class. We talk a lot, too, and I feel like we’re always laughing about something stupid that someone did. Sometimes, his best friends Eren and Mikasa come up to visit and they’re pretty nice people so I don’t mind talking with them.

 

Whenever it’s me and Sasha, though, things usually go less smoothly. She hardly pays attention, so it’s difficult because she’s always getting so confused. Mostly, I do a lot of the work when it’s me and her. Not to mention, she’s basically a package deal with Connie, who is equally as loud, and they just sit and talk instead of working. I don’t mind much, though, because I actually really enjoy their company, as well. Sasha is always stealing food and telling me to write it on her “tab” which is posted in the office. Apparently, Zoe knows about Sasha’s habits and on pay day, she always has to pay what she owes.

 

Today, it’s just me and Armin working for the last few hours until we close down at eleven.

 

“Lymphatic system,” Armin says, leaning over the counter across from me with his medical terminology textbook open to chapter two vocab.

 

I chew the inside of my cheek as I think for a moment. “The system that has the lymphatic vessels, the lymph nodes and fluid, spleen and white blood cells.”

 

“Right!” he says encouragingly, giving me a big smile. “Okay, my turn.”

 

“Okay, how about hematology?”

 

“That’s the blood specialty,” he offers slowly, “right?”

 

We keep going back and forth as the food court empties. We get a few more customers, but by ten, the whole place is empty, save for the last few booths open for business. Armin and I clean everything, ready to turn it all off and head home in the next hour, as we shoot vocabulary words back and forth. We even include those from chapter one, just to test each other even more.

 

We’re throwing around medical words like endotracheal and laryngostenosis when  Eren and Mikasa show up, stopping at the counter and watching us. I spot them first and stop, offering them a smile and shy wave.

 

Both Eren and Mikasa are similar, but completely different from Armin. The three of them grew up together, so they act like family most of the time. But when Armin explained them to me, I imagined them much different from how they were when I first met them a few weeks ago. Eren makes me nervous, because he’s always looking sort of serious or angry and I can never tell when he’s joking so I don’t know when to laugh. Sometimes, it sort of reminds me of Jean when I first met him, but even that was different. Eren just seems… _hostile_ and that makes me feel nervous. Mikasa is similar because she’s always stoic, but at least when she makes a joke everyone laughs and I know to laugh because of that, not to mention she rarely addresses me without addressing everyone else.

 

“Hey, guys,” I greet them as Armin rounds the corner from the office to the counter. He greets them, as well. “Did you want anything before we close down shop?”

 

“Nah, we’re good,” Eren says, putting his hands into his pockets. “Thanks, though.”

 

As I clean up a few more things, Armin talks with his friends. They laugh a little, even Mikasa who usually seems like she’s too nervous to laugh, before Armin turns to me and asks, “Hey, Marco. What are you doing for Halloween?”

 

I turn around to look at them, surprise etched on my face. “Nothing that I’m aware of,” I reply. “Why?”

 

“I’m having a Halloween party,” Eren supplies with a small shrug. “If you wanted to come, then that’s cool. You’re invited.”

 

“You can bring someone, too,” Armin adds quickly having seen how uncomfortable the idea of a party seems to me. “It’s not going to be that big, really. So you can bring someone if that will make you more comfortable. There’s a costume contest, too, so make sure you have a really cool one!”

 

“So, what do ya say, Marco?” Eren asks, raising his eyebrows until they are hiding behind his dark hair. “You in or you out?”

 

For a moment, I think of Jean and how he’s already promised to spend tomorrow afternoon with me shopping for a new sweater. It could be easy to shop for a costume, too, if I bring him. Maybe even coordinate our costumes so we have a fighting chance at winning (because Jean _loves_ being good at things).

 

“I’ll go,” I finally decide, thinking that it can’t be too bad if I bring Jean along and Armin will be there, too. “Thanks for the invite.”

 

Eren only nods in response before going back to talking to Armin and Mikasa. After they finished their conversation, they sit down at some tables nearby to talk while Armin and I finish closing up the shop. By eleven, we’re free and I wave goodbye to the group, fishing my phone out from the pocket of Jean’s jacket as I zip it up and head outside to return to the dorm.

 

I send him a quick text, alerting him that I’m on my way, and I walk with my head down. Ever since I started working at the café and I started coming home so late, Jean told me to text him whenever I was leaving. He also mentioned something about creepers on campus and being raped or attacked, which at the time I had actually be really nervous about.

 

“That way, if it takes too long, I’ll come out and make sure you’re okay,” he’d said. “So you better text me otherwise I won’t know if you need help or not. Got it?”

 

“Sure, Jean,” I’d replied, laughing a little at how worked up he could get about something as small as me walking back to the dorm alone at night. I’m taller than he is, after all, though I’m not the type to fight someone off.

 

So without fail, whenever I leave work, I make sure to text Jean.

 

Surprisingly, I don’t get a text back by the time I reach the building. _He must be sleeping or watching TV,_ I think as I swipe my ID card and get into the dorm building, waving at the boy stationed at the front desk. He smiles from behind glasses but doesn’t say anything.

 

The elevator ride is quick and it dings as it reaches my floor. I walk down the hallway and unlock the dorm, turning on the front room light as I shut and lock the door behind me, taking off my shoes. I part with Jean’s jacket, hanging it up neatly as I step further into the room. Reiner is watching TV, the light casting a shadow across his face as he watches another episode of Extreme Couponing, a show that I (sadly) have started to really become attached to.

 

“Hey,” he says, putting it on mute as he looks over at me. “How was work?”

 

“It was okay,” I reply. “Is Jean asleep?”

 

He shrugs and I wave before heading into the area with our beds as he unmutes and continues watching his show. It’s dark in our room and I turn the light on just to see where I’m going because there have been more than a few occasions where I’ve tripped on some of Jean’s clothes wadded up on the floor.

 

He’s laying in his bed on his side, curled up over top of the blankets. Beside him on the bed is a packet of strawberry pop-tarts, though one is already eaten. His face is relaxed, his mouth set in a straight line as he sighs in his sleep, the corners twitching for a moment before settling again.

 

I smile to myself as I softly brush a few stray crumbs of pop-tart from his cheek. This earns another small twitch and sigh from him. I pick up the packet of pop-tarts and put it back into the box and then place that back on the self that we use as a pantry before returning to his side. I pull his blankets up so they are placed delicately over his body, up to his chest. Once he’s nicely tucked in and looks more comfortable, I make sure that his alarm is set on his phone before I plug it in since he let it get down to 3% battery life.

 

I change into my pajamas quickly and turn out the light, crawling into my own bed and getting comfortable, letting out a loud yawn.

 

“Goodnight, Jean,” I whisper.

* * *

“So what should we do for the costumes?” I ask.

 

It’s Friday afternoon and both Jean and I are on the subway, headed for the main business district in Trost to go sweater shopping. This morning when we both woke up and split a package of pop-tarts (which is becoming more and more of a morning ritual at this point), I told him that I’d been invited to a Halloween party last night by a friend.

 

Jean had actually scoffed a little as he said, “You have other friends?”

 

“Of course I do,” I’d told him, feeling almost a little hurt. “But they said I can bring someone and I immediately thought of bringing you because you’re my best friend. But if you’re not interested…”

 

He’d looked at me then, staring at me for a long moment before sighing and saying, “Fine, fine. I’ll go to the stupid party. But I get to pick the costumes.”

 

“Deal!”

 

And we had shook hands on it. Later that morning, we boarded the subway and headed off into the main parts of Trost to spend the early afternoon sweater shopping since he still owes me a new one after burning the sleeve of my last one. Even though I really loved my last sweater, I can’t help but feel a little happy now because as I sit on the subway next to Jean, I’m also still wearing his favorite jacket.

 

It’s like when you have a crush on someone and you just want to surround yourself with them – wearing their clothes, smelling their scent, hugging them or brushing your hand with theirs by accident. All those small things just make me feel like I’m so much closer to Jean.

 

Thinking this now, I become hyper-aware of how close we’re sitting to accommodate for more people. Our shoulders and arms are pressed together and I can smell his Jean smell – the best boy smell in the world, I’ve decided, radiating from him beside me as well as his jacket that I’m wearing. I let out a dreamy sigh, wanting to close my eyes and put my head on his shoulder, but I restrain myself because that would make things weird for him.

 

“I’m thinking we could do like, skeleton and zombies,” Jean thinks aloud, pursing his thin lips as he thinks for a moment longer. “You know, like, coming back from the dead or something. I used to be hardcore punk like you wouldn’t believe, and I had this phase of drawing skeletons. So, I’m pretty decent at it and could probably do some wicked make up for it.”

 

“So you’ll be my personal makeup artist?” I joke and he rolls his eyes, shoving my shoulder a little but I only laugh. “Okay, that sounds like it could be cool. Think we’ll win the contest?”

 

“Hell yeah we’ll win that contest! I don’t play these games to _lose_ , Marco, god,” he says a bit sarcastically with a small smile on his lips now. “Don’t you even know me by now? I’m the best at everything so we’re gonna win.”

 

The subway voice announces the business district, so we get up and exit the subway, heading up the stairs to the left. I follow Jean because he looks like he knows where he’s going, and he did grow up in Trost. When we emerge from the musky-smelling subway station below, I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips.

 

Trost is the biggest city around and it’s no wonder why. Tall sky-scraper buildings tower over us; the streets are busy with cars and buses and there are people on every sidewalk. The café nearby is full with a line around the corner and the outside tables are all full.

 

“Wow!” I exclaim, quickening my pace to catch up with Jean who is walking ahead of me still, looking around. “This place is _incredible_ , Jean!”

 

“It’s okay,” he replies, his eyes searching for something. “There! That’s the best place in the whole city for clothes. C’mon, Marco!”

 

He waves me ahead and I struggle to keep up with him through the crowds of people. He pushes right through, hardly bothered when he has to bump into them, but I try to say “excuse me” to everyone if I bump them and I trip over an older man’s shoes and he yells at me which startles me and I rush forward, trying to get away from the crowds and find Jean again.

 

“You okay?” Jean says when I finally reach the doors to the store. He’s holding it open for me and I step inside, letting out a sigh of relief, just happy to be away from that huge crowd of people. “You look freaked.”

 

“Y-yeah,” I reply a bit shaky as I look around the shop. “This place is just… really different from where I grew up. It’s sort of aggressive here.”

 

“Yeah, you get used to it,” he says with a shrug. “Okay, let’s get you a new sweater.”

 

I follow him to a huge rack full of sweaters of various size and color. I pick the sleeve of one up, feeling it. It’s got to be the softest sweater that I’ve ever felt and it’s made of gray wool. I pull out the price tag and choke on my spit, coughing a few times to clear my throat.

 

“Jean,” I whisper to him, making him look up from a few sweaters that he’s looking at, “this place is way too expensive!”

 

He looks confused for a second as he comes over and spots the price tag. “Hey, man, don’t look at the price! It’s a gift!” he huffs, scowling at me. “Don’t worry about that. This is gonna be the best sweater you ever had.”

 

“I really can’t accept that, Jean.”

 

“This is like pocket change to my dad, Marco,” Jean says as he waves a credit card in my face a little. “Besides, my old man’s kind of a dick. This is my way of getting back at him. So just let me do this for you, okay?” I give him a look that suggests that I’m still very uncomfortable with the idea and he sighs, adding, “Please?”

 

“Well, are you going to get something, too, then?” I ask, chewing on my bottom lip as a strange feeling of guilt starts to gnaw at my stomach. “Because I really feel terrible about this and if you only buy something for me it looks worse…”

 

“Sure, yeah, I’ll buy something!” he says, a grin spreading over his lips. “I was going to anyway. I need new clothes.”

 

Feeling a little better about it, I head to the clearance rack. It’s still pricey, but not nearly as much so, and I still find quite a few good options. A black sweater made of cashmere with a small snag in it and a dark green one that’s a little itchy but still very warm are the two in the running when I spot them.

 

My stomach does flips and twists as I pick up the hangers, holding each of them out to look.

 

“Hey, Jean,” I call out and he glances up again. “What about these?”

 

He heads over with his hands in his pockets and pauses when he looks over the two sweaters that I’m holding up. “Oh hell fucking no,” he says, looking from the sweaters to my face and clearly wondering if I’m joking or not. “You want to buy _matching sweaters_?”

 

“Why not?” I reply, shaking them a little as if that will make him warm up to them. “When girls are best friends, they buy matching jewelry.”

 

Jean raises an eyebrow at me.

 

“Come on, Jean!” I say, offering my best smile as he holds one up to my chest and the other out to his. “You would look so good in it!”

 

They are simple red wool sweaters. But they’re the kind that you can easily wear a collar shirt under and make it look more classy like how I would wear it, but also without and in Jean’s case, he would probably add denim to the mix.

 

“While that is very true,” Jean says, taking the sweater and sighing, “we’re men, Marco. Men don’t match.”

 

“But we could be the trendsetters,” I offer, hopeful. “Besides, we dress so differently that it won’t even look like matching sweaters hardly ever.”

 

He thinks about this for a moment before finally sighing again.

 

“Okay, okay,” he tells me, rolling his eyes when I beam at him. “Let’s get the damn matching sweaters.”

 

I feel a blush creeping up as we take them to the cashier. The idea of me and Jean wearing them on the same day – matching with each other like couples do – makes my stomach drop like I’m on a roller coaster. It’s so exhilarating to think about and my mind wanders to us holding hands in the sweaters, or drinking from matching coffee mugs and…

 

I stop and realize what I’m thinking about and my whole face feels like its engulfed in flames.

 

 _Stop making it weird,_ I think to myself, scratching the back of my head as I look around, trying to stop blushing. _It’s not like this is the first time you’ve had a crush on someone, Marco. Calm down. Play is cool or you’ll just make things awkward._

 

“So let’s get stuff for the costumes next,” Jean says, taking the bag from the cashier and sliding his dad’s credit card back into his wallet. “Then we can grab some pizza or something and head back to the dorm. Sound good?”

 

“Sounds great!” I say enthusiastically, because despite my best efforts, I can’t stop thinking about impossible possibilities that came with buying those matching sweaters. “Lead the way, Jean.”

 

He does, and I follow and somehow, this is the most natural thing in the world to me.


	6. take better care of yourself (my friend)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So as a little prelude to this I want to say a few things:
> 
>  **1.** THANK YOU all so much for the kind words, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, and all of the reblogs and stuff on Tumblr! It's so strange that so many people read our story (over 3,000 views now...) and like it enough to show support. It kind of brings a tear to my eye! We love this fandom so much, ack. You guys are just the best.  
>  **2.** Jean + Marco's Halloween costumes were inspired by [THIS](http://johannathemad.tumblr.com/post/65025373316/guys-please-read-the-thing-under-the-cut) awesome fanart by [johannathemad](http://johannathemad.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. (She draws the greatest JeanMarco fanart, seriously, if you haven't seen it already you're missing out.)  
>  **3.** Because I know that this is going to seem like bad characterization and someone is going to comment on it - Eren kind of comes off as a dick this chapter. Okay, not just kind of. Like, a lot. But trust me, it's not that he's a bad guy! I hope he at least comes off like he still cares about Jean, because of their history and all. This is all going to be brought to light later on though, as will Jean's own personal struggles he has with his home life. (And don't get us wrong - we seriously love Eren. Like, to death.) But for now at least, they're rivals, so in Jean's perspective, of course Eren is completely unlikeable. He hates the guy!
> 
> I guess that's all I needed to say - thanks again!! You guys rock.
> 
> (Oh, also, I drew some fanart for chapter five which can be found [here](http://shingekinoboyfriends.tumblr.com/post/72288426098/that-scene-in-chapter-five-where-the-boifs-go) on my Tumblr!)

“Stop moving, you’re making it worse.”

Marco flinches as my fingertips move to his jawline, steadying his head with my grip. “Sorry,” he apologizes, and I can tell that he’s blushing under all the makeup I have caked onto his face – his cheeks are warm. There’s papier-mâché in a little bowl sitting in front of his crossed legs, along with a roll of gauze, Styrofoam (which we both worked tirelessly at breaking down into little tiny fibrous balls) and thin strips of paper.

“It tickles a lot,” Marco states as I take a little gauze and drape it over his eyebrow, attaching it with papier-mâché and creating a bumpy surface along it.

“Do it for the Vine,” I whisper, more to myself than to Marco, but he hears me and starts giggling. We sit there for a while like that, with me applying heavy papier-mâché to half of Marco’s face and neck, and after an hour of application, we wait for the damn thing to dry.

“This stuff is getting crispy,” he says eventually.

I stare at the dried mixture of flour and water still clinging to my fingers, which I probably should have washed off just as soon as I finished, but instead I just sat there and lazed around. Now I’m regretting it because my hands feel tacky and it’s super uncomfortable.

“You probably have a while before it’s totally dry and ready for me to add the face paint,” I hum, thinking aloud as I tap my fingers together. “It’s only five, so we still have time, but I could probably do my skeleton paint while we’re waiting…” I can tell Marco’s listening, even though he doesn’t have to because I’m simply vocalizing my thoughts to better understand the course of action I need to take in order for us to get to this party on time.

I still don’t know whose party this is, but these finer details (which, in hindsight, probably should have been more pressing) are pushed to the back of my mind. Mostly I’m just thinking how kickass we are both going to look when we show up at whoever’s house and take the trophy for Best Costumes. At least, I hope there’s a trophy.

…If there’s not a trophy, I’m going to be pissed.

Marco eyes me a moment before lying down next to me on our dorm room floor, which is pretty tight quarters seeing as how our shit is, like, everywhere. Well, my shit, anyway. Marco’s side of the room is fairly put together; all his shirts and jackets (including his brand new fancy sweater) are tucked neatly in his closet, his books and bags are all in order on and under his desk, and his dresser doesn’t look like mine, with clothes trapped between the openings and random stuff strewn across the top.

 

“Teach me how to be neat, Marco,” I say off-handedly.

 

Normally, I would have expected Marco to look at me confused, brow furrowed, asking _whatever do you mean, you’re neat, Jean, don’t worry!_ But he just looks over at me with a funny grin on his face and goes, “Yeah, I don’t know if you can be saved at this point.”

 

“HEY!” I growl, sitting upright and leaning over at him. I narrow my eyes playfully.

 

He holds up both hands in defense. “I’m just saying, you’ve gone pretty far off the deep end with your messes.” There’s a brief pause, but when his eyes catch sight of my hamper, there’s a look in his eyes like he’s just made a point. “For example,” he starts, “look at that hamper. All those dirty clothes need to be taken to be washed. I honestly don’t know how you find stuff to wear because it looks like your dirty clothes have started leaking out of the hamper and making a mess of your floor.” He picks a sock nearby his head up and squints at it. “Is this the sock you threw at me the other morning?”

 

“It’s possible,” I say.

 

He laughs loudly. “Like I said. Hopeless.”

 

“Okay Marco, in my defense, that hamper is full of clean clothes.”

 

Marco takes another look at the hamper and then returns his gaze back to me. “But they’re all wrinkly.”

 

“That’s because I was too lazy to hang them up when I took them out of the dryer.”

 

“Jean, you have a serious problem.”

 

It’s my turn to laugh. “Okay, okay. Next time, you’re coming with me to do laundry, alright?” He makes some quiet comment about slave work, but I simply ignore it and start grabbing the supplies I need to do the skeleton face paint. I take it all with me into the bathroom, finally wash my hands of that unfortunate papier-mâché, and take a bobby pin out of the drawer under the sink to pin my bangs back.

 

The sound of movement stirs in the room next door and before I know it, I see Marco in the doorway’s reflection in the facing mirror.

 

“Mind if I sit in here and watch?” he asks.

 

“It’s not much to watch,” I say, “but sure.” With one swift kick, I close the lid to the toilet and nod in its direction. He walks in quietly behind me, but since the bathroom is so narrow, his front brushes up against my butt and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

_Jean motherfucking Kierschtein, you knock that off right now._

 

I shake my head quickly to clear away any strange thoughts and refocus my attention on the mirror.

 

“So, Marco,” I start, uncapping the white paint and dabbing it onto my fingers. “Have you ever gotten drunk before?”

 

“Once,” he replies, but it’s delayed, so I can’t tell if he’s lying or just embarrassed about how little he’s done to prepare himself for college life. “And it was kind of on accident.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He nods. “My uncle made jello shots for the adults at my graduation party and no one told me – and I really like jello.” He laughs quickly. “It was an interesting afternoon… I’ll just leave it at that.”

 

“You poor, underprivileged soul.” I smear the white paint around on my face as I say it, but really I don’t even mind that Marco’s never seriously drank before. Chances are he probably will be getting a little drunk tonight, and at least now I know that I need to watch him. Keep him safe. The internal sense to protect him forms in the pit of my stomach and sits there, dormant. Or maybe it’s always been there. I can’t tell for sure.

 

Marco watches quietly as I paint my face, first blending the white in before adding tints of black to give the illusion of teeth, then finally caking on pure black to cover my eyelids, nose, and the hollows of my cheekbones.

 

“Wow,” he says as I stand back to admire my work in the mirror. “You look amazing.”

 

This catches me off-guard, stops me for a moment, and something inside me suddenly jars as though I’ve been given whiplash. It’s the same feeling whenever Marco says things like this, like when he compliments me off-handedly or when he praised my sketches the other night. I suppose I’m just not used to anyone finding me particularly special, which I know for a fact is one of the reasons I try to be so damn good at everything. And when I get recognition, when I hear the awe in Marco’s voice, I realize that maybe I’m just trying to impress _him._

 

I avert my eyes and start washing my hands. “Thanks, man.”

 

“I can’t wait to see what I’m going to look like,” he wonders, reaching up to trail his fingertips along the gauze, which is now a bit drier than before.

 

“You’re going to look so gruesome.” I shoot him a look and find myself smirking. “The coolest costume there, for sure.”

 

He smiles wide then looks away, hunching over and cupping his cheeks in his hands… And there’s something about the way he does it that makes my smirk fade. I face the mirror, but my eyes wander back to him. Through careful observation, I can tell his neck is warm.

 

There’s a sudden change in his mood, and it seems almost sad in a way. I don’t know how I know this, but I can just sense it.

 

 _He must be nervous about the party,_ I think, trying to quell the curiosity as to why Marco looks the way he does.

 

“If you’re worried about the contest,” I start, dabbing a bit more white around my hairline, “don’t be. And if you’re worried you won’t know anyone, don’t, because I won’t know anyone either.” I spare him a laugh, but he’s not smiling. So I keep talking, searching for something to say to make him feel a little better. “I get nervous around people, too, Marco. You’ve just gotta be yourself and I know everyone will fall in love with you. You’re the nicest guy I know, and-“

 

“Jean,” he cuts me off. His back is still facing me. “You’re rambling again.”

 

“I know I am,” I say indignantly, “but you’re making me all depressed all of the sudden and I don’t like it! So cheer up, Freckles. Tonight’s going to be a blast.”

 

I honestly don’t know if it’s going to be all that fun. Hell, I still don’t even know where we’re going, and I’ve never been to a college party before so my words hold no real truth or meaning to them, but they sound nice and I hope that Marco believes them. I really do.

 

He’s quiet a moment and then looks back at me. His smile is back and a wave of relief settles over me.

 

“You really do always know just what to say.”

 

And now _I’m_ the one blushing under all this makeup, and I don’t know why I am or why I’m so embarrassed about it, so I cup my hand around the back of my neck and laugh – albeit nervously.

 

“Ah, yeah,” I stutter, “I-I try.”

* * *

“Dude, this would be so fucked up if you actually only had half of a face,” I tell Marco as we make our way across campus, toward Fraternity Row. “Like, just imagine. What if you woke up one day and your face was gone? Or, half-gone?”

 

“Jean, you’re not drunk already, are you?” His words come with a somewhat nervous sigh.

 

“Of course not! I’m the one watching you tonight, remember?”

 

Marco laughs. “Sure you are.” He doesn’t even try and make a case that he’s a grown man, an adult in the eyes of the law, and that he can take care of himself. For some reason, he just lets me stick with with my internalized plan of protection. Maybe he _wants_ to be watched out for? Hell if I know. Marco sure is a lot more secretive than I initially thought and it pisses me off sometimes when I can’t read his mind.

 

“This would be a pretty brutal battle scar,” he says, running his fingers along the rigid crimson surface consuming nearly half of his head and even a bit below his jawline. “A bit unfortunate for me though, because I’d probably be dead.”

 

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I guess you could say you wouldn’t be _half_ the man you are today.”

 

Marco has to work to control his laughter as we cross the street toward Phi Kappa Sigma where this party is supposedly held at. There are a few people walking around outside and they look in our direction, half interested in why the freckled kid is wheezing to the point of possible-death and the other half interested in why we’re dressed like a couple of idiots.

 

 _It’s Halloween, motherfuckers,_ I feel like shouting at them all, _and quit staring, goddammit._

 

Phi Kappa Sigma is at the end of the block and Marco seems to straighten a little as we press on closer.

 

“What’s wrong?” I ask lightly.

 

He just shakes his head, starting to become visibly nervous. Then he says, “The guy who invited me said this party wasn’t supposed to be big. But…” Marco’s words trail off, but I can see where his thoughts are leading. Up ahead, there are people bursting out of the fraternity house, laughing loudly with red cups gleaming beneath the streetlamps outside, and from inside, loud music bumps a thick bass line which reverberates in my chest.

 

“Well, don’t worry,” I tell him. “It might actually be better this way. Just stick to me and you’ll be fine.”

 

He glances once over at me, then looks away, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly before smiling a little. “I feel like I’m getting a pep-talk.”

 

“Hey, you needed one,” I laugh, and he does too.

 

We walk up to the front door and it’s now that I remember I should probably ask whose party this is – because to be honest, besides that blond-haired, bowlcut-ravaged kid Armin, Marco doesn’t really mention anyone else. I’m actually kind of under the impression that I’m his only real friend, which makes me curious and a little jealous ( _why am I even jealous_ ) as to who it is.

 

“Hey, Marco,” I start, “how did you meet the kid hosting this party? I mean, he’s in a frat – he kind of already seems like a jackwagon.”

 

“It’s kind of funny actually,” he chuckles nervously. “He’s one of Armin’s friends who came to visit him at work and—oh, hey, there he is now.”

 

And that’s when I see him. Standing just past the door, greeting kids as they’re walking inside, is the most fucking stupid, short, idiotic, stupid, dumb child I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.

 

_Eren fucking Jaeger._

 

“OH.” My eyes narrow at the boy dressed like a shitty Han Solo, and since we’re close enough for him to hear me, I address him dumb ass. “YOU.”

 

Eren’s eyes follow to where the sound of my voice is coming from and I watch his expression change from happy to confused (because I’m wearing face paint so obviously he can’t tell who I am right away) to smug.

 

“Oh hey,” he greets us, pointing then at me with the plastic gun wielded in his hand. “Didn’t recognize you at first, Kirschstein. I can’t believe you passed high school.”

 

“I was in the top ten, you dickhole,” I spit.

 

Marco gives me a warning look out of the corner of his eye but of course I ignore him.

 

“Oh yeah,” Eren laughs, “you got six. I got five, didn’t I?”

 

“I hate you so much,” I mutter, though it’s more to myself than to Eren because I can’t believe I agreed to go to a party hosted by the kid I would have considered my rival all throughout high school.

 

“Dude, why are you even here?”

 

I elbow Marco. “Marco invited me.”

 

“Oh yeah, hey, Marco. Sweet costume.” Eren smiles, and it’s so genuine and nice compared to the look he gives me immediately afterward that I just want to reach across and punch him right in his stupid face. “Why are you friends with Horse Face over here? I mean, if you would have known him in high school, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be now. He sucked a lot.”

 

This is clearly an awkward moment for Marco, and while I am half-tempted to turn right back around and walk out, my feet stay planted firmly on the ground because this is Marco’s first party and like hell if I’m leaving him here by himself.

 

“Uh, th-thanks for inviting me,” Marco stammers. His cheeks are a little flushed. “I didn’t know you two had a history.”

 

“It’s in the past,” Eren says nonchalantly, throwing in a shrug for good measure. “I mean, whatever, I’m over it.” He then launches into what seems like a pre-planned speech that he’s given to every single person showing up. “You guys are free to come inside if you like, we’ve got kegs in the kitchen and there’s pong happening in the living room. But if you guys smoke, keep that outside. We can’t have smoke in the house.”

 

“We don’t smoke,” Marco assures him, and he smiles. “Thanks, Eren.”

 

He stands aside, making way for us both to pass – but just as I’m about to, he shoulders me – _hard_ – and I narrow my eyes at him.

 

Lowering his voice a little, he tells me privately, “Marco seems like a sweet kid. Don’t corrupt him, ‘kay?”

 

I almost ask him what he means by that but I let it go, because I am so sick of seeing his stupid face and I don’t want to start any fights here – at least, not right now. We’ve only been here a few minutes, anyway.

 

“I give it an hour,” Marco sighs, waiting to catch up with me.

 

“No way,” I tell him, “I can behave.”

 

He smiles a little, scratching at his temple with his pointer finger. “Why do I not believe you?”

 

“You’ll believe anything after you’ve had a few,” I tell him as we find our way to the currently crowded kitchen. His eyes go wide as I reach for a cup at the top of the stack next to the keg and I can’t help but laugh at him. Even though I’m still feeling a little tense about the whole ‘Eren’ thing, being in Marco’s company makes it easy to brush off.

 

Grabbing one of three nozzles, I start to fill his glass, keeping the foam to a minimum as I pour the amber liquid against the side of the cup. “It’s going to taste bad at first, but don’t worry, you get used to it.” I’m trying to reassure him with my words, not yet looking up to see if they’re doing any good. “But, hey, by the end of the night, you probably won’t even _care_ what it tastes like.”

 

The beer reaches the top of the cup and I flick the nozzle closed, letting it fall back against the keg as I turn around and hand Marco the cup. Tentatively, he takes it, and again our hands brush up against each other’s. His fingers are warm against mine, and when he isn’t as quick to move them away as he should be, I look up at him.

 

“Oops,” he says, taking the cup back quickly, “sorry.” He runs a hand quickly through his hair, messing up the part a little, and averts his eyes.

 

I shrug, looking away as well. Something feels weird in the pit of my stomach, like some kind of growing knot.

 

Suddenly, above the loudness of the music pumping throughout the house, I hear a voice shout, “MARCO!” and I turn around – even though I’m obviously not Marco. I just want to know who the person calling out the name of my best friend is and if they’re at all worthy of his blessed presence.

 

It’s Armin.

 

“Hey, Marco,” he says, waving his hand wildly as he slides past people standing around, blocking the entrance to the kitchen where we are still standing. When he reaches us, he hold’s Marco’s eyes for a moment before turning them on me. “Oh, hey, Jean.”

 

“Hey Armin,” I greet him, smiling a little. He’s a nice guy, anyway, and it’s nice to see a familiar face that’s even remotely friendly in this crowd.

 

“You guys look aaaaaawesome,” he says, his tone a little strange. That’s when I fully take in his costume; he looks like he’s trying to play off of Eren’s costume, meaning he is covered in fur and has what appears to be a sash of ammo reaching from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist. _Blond Chewbacca? I mean, hey, he’s a little short to be Chewbacca but I’ll give him credit for trying._

 

Marco grins down at him. “You look awesome, too.” _What a nice guy._

Armin eyes the left half of Marco’s face and starts to reach a hand upward. “Do you mind if I touch it?” he asks tentatively.

 

“Sure! It’s kind of crusty, though, so be warned.” His words spill out with a laugh.

 

Armin’s laughing too, but he ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s at my craftsmanship, keeping that smile glued to my lips. He touches it gingerly, making sure not to wipe off the additional red face paint I used to cover the papier-mâché/gauze/Styrofoam mixture.

 

“Gross,” Armin says, but it’s with a sort of awe and appreciation that makes me proud of my work. “Yours looks great too, Jean. I didn’t know you were such an artist – you did Marco’s too, right? He was talking alllllll about it at work a couple nights ago.”

 

I look over at Marco.

 

He bears a striking resemblance to a fish out of water; his mouth falls open, and I can tell he _wants_ to say something, but something else is stopping him. After a moment of silence, he brings the beer up to his mouth and takes one long, leaned-back swig.

 

“You were talking about me at work?” I ask as he swallows, and as he does, he starts to cough a little. “Woah there, buddy,” I add quickly, patting his back a couple of times. “Don’t die.”

 

“Were you trying to burp me like a baby?” he gasps as soon as his coughing fit ends. Then he holds up his cup, as though to make a statement with it, his words both moving and profound. “I’m not a baby, Jean. I am a grown man.”

 

“Ah, there we go!” I laugh. “I’ve been waiting for you to call me out on babying you all night.” I then raise my hand and pat him on his head, although this proves to be a slight struggle because he’s a good deal taller than I am.

 

“You guys sure are funny,” Armin laughs, taking a sip of the glass in his own hand – though it isn’t beer. It looks like a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. _Pussy._ “Or maybe I’m just a little tipsy right now. I can’t tell!” He pauses, then bats his hand through the air with a laugh. “Naww, you guys are funny! I’m just kitten! Get it? Like kittens! Ahhh.”

 

“He’s wasted,” I whisper to Marco. He nods once, bringing his fist to his lips and laughing lightly. “Hey Armin, you should go find Eren, he’s probably looking for you.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right! Thanks Jean. You know, Eren’s wrong about you, you’re one of the good ones!”

 

I can’t help but laugh again. I fight back the urge to tell him, _I wish you would have said that about four years ago, because having a friend in high school might not have been the worst thing._ But it really isn’t Armin’s fault; it was my own fault for being so antisocial, or rude, or negative. I’m still that way. It’s just a defect in my personality that I can’t change. I guess that makes Marco some kind of strange miracle.

 

Shaking my head to clear the onslaught of sudden thoughts that are too deep to have been conjured without at least a few drinks put away, I nod at Armin. “Thanks, man.”

 

He then makes some sort of curtsy-gesture and heads back the way he came. I look at Marco, who simultaneously lifts his head to look at me, and we erupt in a fit of laughter that makes everyone in the room turn around and stare.

 

Marco wipes at his eyes. “Am I eventually going to sound like him? You know, once I have a few…”

 

“You might not make _kitten_ jokes,” I start, but find myself laughing too hard to continue speaking. Still, Marco catches my drift.

 

“So your official answer is ‘maybe, maybe not,’” he clarifies. “Alright, good to know.” And with that, he lifts the cup again to his lips and takes a long sip. His face as he pulls the cup away is priceless – a sour grimace, like he’s stuck in an elevator with the smell of an old fart or something.

 

I take a moment to pour myself a glass and take a quick sip. PBR. I can see why Marco’s a little grossed out. It’s definitely not the smoothest beer known to man.

 

“Let’s get out of the kitchen,” Marco says suddenly, to which I nod at him – but as soon as we decide to head out, a clusterfuck of people move to crowd the entryway and we stop dead in our tracks. I take one look at him and see the worried expression on his face.

 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Marco, it’s that he doesn’t do well with large groups of people. I mean, he just gets kind of nervous and you can see it in his eyes, how he wishes he could find a way out of the situation. Maybe it’s claustrophobia. Maybe it’s anxiety. Or maybe it’s neither, and I’m simply coming up with different scenarios in my head for reasons to look out for him. But whatever it is that makes me grab his hand and lead us both out of that room, I eventually decide it doesn’t matter.

 

I feel his hand grip mine tighter, so I don’t let go when we make it past the annoying sorority bimbos and their jocky frat boyfriends talking about how wasted they’re gonna get, all the while dressed up like bad imitations of sexy Disney Princesses and lewd innuendos. I hold on to Marco’s hand good and tight until we find a secluded place down the hallway in a small open seating room, which I’m guessing is usually the dining room.

 

When I let go, I fold my arm immediately across my chest to try and play it cool, because I don’t know how fond either of us are of physical contact on a dude-ly level, and take another sip of the beer in my cup.

 

“This sure is a party,” I say jokingly. “I mean, jeez, you really had to pick _this_ one for your first time.”

 

“Honestly, I didn’t know it was this big!” he laughs. “And, also, I really didn’t know about you and Eren.” Marco’s tone suddenly turns serious and he move just a little closer, lowering his voice as he does so. “If I would have known you didn’t like him, there’s no way I would have dragged you to this. I probably wouldn’t have come at all.”

 

“No, you would have gone,” I tell him, smiling a little. “But I probably would have made Reiner accompany you. Speaking of Reiner, did you ever find out what him and Bertl are doing tonight?”

 

Marco shrugs. “Probably just watching Too Cute: Kittens or something.”

 

“They have the absolute worst taste in television,” I say.

 

“I dunno, Jean. I kind of like that show.”

 

We’re both quiet a moment before I crack the façade I’m putting up and say, “Alright, alright… I guess… I guess that show isn’t the _worst._ ”

 

“Oh, come on, you like it,” he smirks. “I saw it on the Netflix ‘Recently Watched’ section that weekend Reiner went over to Bertholdt’s dorm!”

 

My face flushes. “Shut up!”

 

We talk for what feels like forever. I make a few trips for Marco to the kitchen to refill his glass, keeping my eyes always on the lookout for that little punk Eren, but he’s nowhere in sight which is somewhat of a relief. On the fifth return, however, I don’t find Marco sitting alone. There’s a pair of kids standing in front of the armchair he’s made a home in, and at first I can’t see Marco’s face, but when I get close enough, I see him smiling.

 

“—and then the guy confiscated my entire lunch bag and told me to come back to class when I could _control myself._ I was like, ‘Listen up, teach, I am _in_ control! But I have basic needs, too! Girl’s gotta eat, homeboy.’” A girl with a high brown ponytail, fox ears and a tail moves her hands as she speaks, and I get the feeling that I’ve seen her before. The kid next to her, some little bald twirp with a fluffball attached to his belt and a set of rabbit ears on his head, puts his hand on her waist and I notice her lean toward him, perhaps unintentionally.

 

Marco’s laughing now, but as soon as he sees me, he gets himself under control and lets his face light up. “Jeeeean,” he calls above the music. The two standing in front of him turn a little to see who Marco’s addressing, and I give them both a little wave before handing Marco his beer.

 

“Thank you _so much_ ,” he slurs a little. I haven’t had anything to drink since the first beer so I’m not feeling much of anything. It’s probably for the better though, because this kid sure doesn’t know how to hold his alcohol. “Jean, this is Sasha and Connie, I work with them.”

 

I wave again, although this time I’m sure I look a bit more forced.

 

“He’s a funny one,” the girl – who I take is Sasha – says lightly, sipping from her cup as she does so. “You guys are roommates, right?”

 

“You don’t listen well,” Baldie says. I know Marco said his name was Connie, but I started referring to him as Baldie the second I laid eyes on him, so that’s not going to change anytime soon. “Marco only talks about Jean, like, every time you work – and I shouldn’t even know these things! I don’t even work at that damn place.”

 

I perk up a little bit. This is the second time tonight I’ve heard someone mention Marco’s habit of talking about me. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as my eyes land on little ol’ Freckles, spacing out in his chair with a blank expression on his face. He didn’t even hear what Baldie said, it just went in one ear and out the other.

 

But I decide not to think anything of it. I mean, we are best friends after all, and with all the time we spend together, it must be hard _not_ bringing up the hilarious shit we do.

 

“Hey,” Sasha says suddenly, looking between Marco and me, “do you two wanna come play pong with us? We were just on our way over there.”

 

“What’s…” Marco starts, very much confused, then realizes what it is himself. “Oh! Beer pong, you mean.”

 

“We’ll play,” I tell her, answering for both of us before Marco can say no. It’s not so much that I’m interested in hanging out with these two dingbats, but I’m kind of on a mission to give Marco the most well-rounded experience he can have, and that doesn’t include him sitting in the corner all night long. He only needed to be there long enough to muster some liquid courage and get a little confidence.

 

It’s working already, I can tell; as we follow Sasha and Baldie out of the room, Marco grabs the hem of my shirt and lets me lead him, and as we walk, the ends of his shoes scrape at my heels.

 

“Whoops,” he mumbles, leaning his forehead against my shoulder blades a little as his grip on my shirt tightens. “Sorry, Jen.”

 

 _‘Jen?’ He called me ‘Jen’?!_ I bite back the laughter rising in my throat. “It’s okay,” I tell him instead, thankful he can’t see the look on my face.

 

“So, you guys know how to play, right?” Baldie calls across the table, rolling a ball in our direction.

 

Marco stands up straight at my side as we take our positions at one end, but I catch the look he shoots me. “Yeah, we know the rules,” I say, then turn slightly toward Marco. My voice lowers and I find his eyes. “You just take turns shooting the ball back and forth, trying to make as many cups as you can. If we both make it, we get to go again. Don’t bounce it off the table or they can swat it away. Got it?”

 

His eyebrows look furrowed, and I can tell that learning a game in such a state of inebriation does not come without some warranted confusion, but there’s not much else I can tell him to clarify.

 

“Okay,” he says slowly, then glances down at me, grinning. Our eyes meet and he winks. “I’m gonna give this a try.”

 

“So, did you do sports in school?” I ask him, watching closely as he takes aim at the triangle of cups positioned at the opposite end of the table.

 

He bites his lip in concentration. “Basketball,” he says, and shoots.

 

The ball swishes around the rim of the first cup and plops down into it.

 

From across the table, Baldie whistles. “Young blood got _skills._ ”

 

“Holy shit, Marco!” I grin, clapping him on the back. “You’re amazing. Are you seriously good at _everything_? You’re going to make me look bad!” I’m joking of course – like I would actually be mad that Marco was good at something. I was really proud of him, actually, the way he picked up the game lightning quick and focused so intensely on doing well.

 

It isn't long before a crowd begins to form around us; Sasha's holding the team on their end of the table, but only barely with Marco kicking so much ass on our side. Before even ten minutes has passed, Marco makes the winning shot and throws both hands up in the air, raising his glass in a celebratory cheers.

 

I don’t have a glass anymore, so I move to give him one of those side-hugs that men give other men. Except when Marco sees me move, he clearly isn’t on the same wavelength as me; he goes in for a full blown hug, wrapping both arms tightly around my shoulders and pulling me close to his chest. He laughs.

 

_Ba-dump._

 

I stand there still for a moment, not really sure what to do, and just when I decide to just man-up and hug Marco back, he pulls away and yells: “Woo!” at the top of his lungs, earning whoops and cat calls from the crowd standing tightly around the table.

 

“Yeah, Marco!” I hear someone yell in the distance. Sounds like Armin.

 

I’m proud of the guy. His first game of beer pong and he kicked so much ass! The smile on my face doesn’t falter… not until I hear what some kid’s saying to Marco.

 

“—be my partner for the next game?”

 

I whip my head around in his direction, eyes finding Marco’s. He looks at me like he isn’t sure, or maybe he just wants to make sure I’m okay with it. Well, I sure as hell am _not_ okay with it! Marco’s _my_ partner, and anyone else who just wants to tag along with Freckles just because it turns out he’s a star when it comes to competitive alcoholic games ain’t no friend of ours.

 

 _Stop it, Jean,_ comes the voice of my conscience. God, I hate that little voice – and it isn’t often I pay attention to it. _You aren’t allowed to hog Marco. He can be their friend, too, and besides, you have to free him of the invisible shackles you’ve locked him in if you want him to have a good time._

 

And I guess that’s true. This is about Marco, not me. It’s his party, not mine. I’m just tagging along. I’m just _the_ _plus one._

 

Sighing, I nod at Marco, as if to say “go ahead” and offer him a forced smile as I step back from the table and take a seat in a folding chair up against the wall – just far enough away that I can keep an eye on him, but not too close to have to deal with the sudden onslaught of drunk, mesmerized teenagers watching Marco kick ass _yet again._

 

I kind of wish I had a beer, or at least _something_ to take my mind off of how shitty it feels getting kicked to the curb. I mean, I’m not terrible at beer pong, but… I mean, I’m sure not _the best._ Maybe Marco deserves a better partner.

 

Folding my arms across my chest, I try and pay attention to the new game.

 

But it isn’t long before I feel a nudge to my shoulder. I look over at who it is, expecting either Sasha, Baldie, or hell, even Armin. But I sure don’t expect to see Eren fucking Jaeger looking down at me with that same stupid expression stuck to his face.

 

I look once at him then let my gaze flicker back to the game – but I can’t focus on it, not even as the crowd cheers and Marco fist pumps into the air wildly. I can’t keep my attention on him, even as he glances once in our direction, flashing me a worried expression with his eyes before slowly easing back into his game.

 

The air between us is thick with uneasiness.

 

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you show up,” Eren says off-handedly. “I was really just teasing you earlier, at the door. You didn’t really suck _that_ much in high school.”

 

“That almost sounds like you were shooting for an apology, but then lost your way halfway through it.”

 

“It wasn’t an apology,” he states stiffly. “I don’t really have anything else to say to you after… you know…”

 

A memory flashes and I remember Eren in the hallway at school, just as he’d spat out the words that ruined our friendship, the words that turned us into enemies. And I couldn’t forgive him for what he said back then, just as I don’t now, and never will.

 

 _“Bastard.”_ I can hear him saying it; I can see his mouth moving to form the word, and wait for that familiar feeling of kerosene being poured in the pit of my stomach, then lit at once with the flicker of a match.

 

“You haven’t changed at all,” I say, still not looking back at him. “Still the same douche-y, prepubescent-lookin' pile of steaming shit I remember from high school.”

 

There’s a pause before Eren says anything back. “I don’t remember _you_ this way,” he hums, finally finding the words. He’s careful when he chooses them now, I can tell – careful in a way he hadn’t been all those years ago. “You were angry. You didn’t come to parties like this. You sure wouldn’t be seen hanging out with a guy like _him._ ” I don’t even need to see who he’s pointing at to know who it is he means.

 

His voice is soft, his laughter loud, his blushes fierce, and his outfits borderline dorky. He’s sometimes _too_ good at things. He’s smart, a quick-thinker, and obsessive when it comes to his grades. His obsession with Strawberry Pop Tarts is a little strange, and he watches shows like Extreme Couponing in his spare time.

 

Everything about Marco could have been totally wrong, and yet somehow, it wasn’t. I didn’t like him all that much when I first met him because, Eren's right, he _wasn’t_ the kind of person I would have hung around in high school. But now… it’s different. And I’m not sure why.

 

Eren continues. “I get the feeling he’s an exception.”

 

My eyes finally flicker over to his, and I’m surprised to find him staring back at me, almost challengingly. It’s enough to make me stand up from the chair I’m sitting in and face him directly – and I even have a few inches on the guy, which gives me a slight advantage.

 

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

 

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “I mean, dude, listen, nobody cares—”

 

“ _What_ is that supposed to _mean_?” I ask again, this time more forcefully. I take a step toward him, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he just kind of laughs a little – like my reaction is some kind of big fucking joke to him or something. Whatever the reason for his laughter, it pisses me right the fuck off and I narrow my eyes at him.

 

“I _mean,_ ” Eren shoots back, his eyes not leaving mine, “that I remember the way you looked at dudes in the locker room after P.E.… And you can like whoever you wanna like.”

 

It takes me a second to understand what he means, but by the time I do, he’s talking again.

 

“Just make sure you aren’t corrupting him, if you know what I mean,” he says a littler quieter. “Marco’s a nice guy, but I don’t know if he’s—”

 

“I don’t know _what_ you think you’re talking about,” I say, my voice breaking at the end – but only because I’m so fucking furious at this boy and the stupid words spilling out of his mouth that I can barely speak. “But you obviously don’t know a _thing_ about me, and don’t pretend to. We aren’t _friends_ anymore, Eren!”

 

“We stopped being friends because I used the truth in an argument!” he shouts back, folding his arms now. He staggers backward a little, and it has now become apparent that he’s had a few drinks. Although he might not be as gone as Marco, he sure isn’t thinking clearly.

 

“We stopped being friends because what you said was out of line!” My body is shaking. I’m so angry, and frustrated, and I don’t want to be arguing with a drunk Eren Jaeger right now, I mean, that’s like the _last_ thing I want to be doing. But I can’t stop myself. My fists are balled up, trembling at my sides, and I’m scared that if I move, I’ll hurt him.

 

“I _apologized_!” he groans. People are looking over at us now, and I hate the fact that this is becoming a public thing. “But you weren’t innocent, either, alright? And that’s got nothing to do with the fact that right now, I’m just looking out for Marco!”

 

“You’re not looking out for him!” I look away, because even though part of me wants to be right, another part of me feels like I might be wrong… and I can’t let Eren see it. “You’re just making false accusations, and you have no right!”

 

That’s when he pushes me over the edge. Somehow, his fist wraps around my collar and he’s glaring me right in the face, furious breath hot on mine.

 

“He’s the only friend you’ve got,” he says – and something in his eyes falters, changing, letting something else enter, something besides rage. I recognize it in an instant as pity. Complete and unadulterated pity. “Don’t do anything that’s going to change that, alright? Because I get the feeling you can’t afford to lose anyone else.” There’s a brief pause, like he almost doesn’t say what he really wants to say, but the switch that controls what comes out of his mouth is not working right due to the smell of beer rolling off his lips.

 

“You don’t have your parents. At the end of the day, who is gonna be there for you?”

 

I can’t hold back anymore.

 

I swing my fist and feel the bruises already growing on my knuckles as they make contact with his jaw.

 

There’s a hush that spreads over the room as Eren stumbles back, green eyes shocked as they stare down at the floor before traveling up my body to meet my face. And then, his switch flips – and we’re a flurry of punches and kicks and we’re on the ground, sputtering, gasping, growling, shouting in pain…

 

Until a pair of arms grips Eren, who is sitting on top of me just _wailing_ on my face, and pulls him off me forcefully. I can’t see straight for a minute, but when I’m able to, I bring my wrist to my nose that feels like it’s on fire, and when I pull it away, a trickle of blood rubs off on my skin, along with the black and white of my skeleton face paint.

 

_Ya done fucked up this time, Kirschtein._

 

I look up at the crowd staring at me and regret ever showing up to this stupid party. I don’t see Marco, but I feel a set of hands lifting me from under my arms and getting me to my feet.

 

“Ah,” I say, reaching down briefly to touch the tender skin of my jawline. My eyes scan over the crowd and I tilt my chin up a little. “I’m sorry, everyone,” I address them, holding up a hand. “Uh, please go back about your business.”

 

“Jen.” The voice comes from behind me and I turn around to see Marco, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks flushed, hands resting on his hips. He looks positively _pissed._ And rightly he should be. I’m still pissed, but now that anger is mixed with embarrassment and regret.

 

“Marco,” I start, but before I can say anything else, he grabs me by the wrist and turns around, heading toward the front door without ever looking back and dragging me along with him. As we leave, I see Eren standing nearby, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his cheek, glaring at me. I glare right the fuck back.

 

“Happy Halloween,” I spit. “You stupid, dumb—”

 

“ _Jen,_ ” Marco prompts, and my feet keep moving until we’re outside the frat house.

 

“Okay, listen,” I say as soon as he releases his grip on my wrist, “I—”

 

“You ffff… You… you fu… You _messed_ up… big time!” He’s having trouble choosing his words, but his eyes are transfixed on the collar of my shirt, never moving. He shakes his head a little as he tries to refocus his train of thought. “This was supposed to be _fun_ , a-and you _ruined_ it!”

 

I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible, because even though he isn’t thinking clearly right now, I know he’s going to remember this tomorrow and hate me even more. “I’m sorry.” My voice sounds sad, even in my own ears.

 

He takes a step toward me. There’s a sudden change in his tone and it’s worrying; what once sounded angry has turned quiet and sad.

 

“Why did you punch him?” Marco’s hands lift upward and rest on my shoulders, holding them tightly. I’m very aware of how close we are – so close that he can lower his voice and I still can hear him clearly. Or, as clear as someone this wasted can sound.

 

“You can’t just be violent to people, Jen,” he says, eyelids halfway shut. His pronunciation is bad and the words slur together. I take another look up at him, slowly moving my eyes to meet his, and when I do, I realize there are tears filling in along his lash line.

 

“Oi, Marco,” I breathe, and without thinking, I bring my thumb up to wipe a tear away from his eye. I don’t even bother to see if anyone is watching. To be honest, I’m not thinking about anyone else besides Marco right now, and how much of a complete asshat I am for wrecking his night. I pause for a moment before saying anything else, but finally decide on a simple, “Let’s go home,” to which he nods and grabs me by the arm, holding on tightly as he fights with the tears that are starting to trickle down his papier-mâché.

 

We walk in silence for a while, but I break it by stating, “You know, Marco, you would have totally won that costume contest.”

 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then flicks a tear off his nose and sniffs, smiling just a little. “You think so?”

 

“’Think so’? Did you _see_ those kids back there? Their costumes were lame as hell. You looked so fucking rad! And everybody said how cool you were.”

 

He laughs. “You did my makeup, so you should have won.”

 

“I don’t deserve it.” I pause. “You were like Cinderella or something tonight, dude. You came out and showed them all up, kicked ass at beer pong, got the party going… Everybody loved you.”

 

Marco falls silent, and then, “I didn’t want to impress them.”

 

“Well you sure did,” I laugh, patting his arm to reassure his drunk ass that he was perfectly fine and did a great job for his first party. “You impressed them, and me, too.”

 

“Really?” his eyes light up.

 

“Really.”

 

As we cross the street and make our way to the front steps of Rose Dormitory, Marco suddenly tenses and I stop, looking over at him, making sure he’s alright.

 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, although I suppose it comes out a little gruffer than I meant it to. Marco looks down at me, eyes full of tears (yet again) and I sigh, putting a hand on his back. We’re the only ones out here right now, so I don’t try and shush him when he starts whimpering and wiping at his face. Clumps of makeup and waxy paper come off as he does so, and even then, I don’t try and stop him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, then bursts out into full-on-tears. “I’m so sorry Jen, I ruined everything.”

 

I blink twice. “How did you ‘ruin everything’?” I ask him, bending down now as he hunches over with his hands over his face, shaking and crying and _oh wow Marco is very drunk and this is getting out of hand very quickly._

 

“I-I-I-I…” he starts to say, but immediately trails off.

 

I sigh. Alright, now he’s just confusing himself – and I don’t know what to say to him to make him stop the waterworks, so I figure maybe I should just wait it out.

 

“You’re mad at me,” he says.

 

“No I’m not,” I snap (completely by accident), to which he wails louder. “Oh, Jesus, Marco! There’s people probably trying to sleep right now.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he starts saying, repeating over and over, and by the fifth time, I can’t help but chuckle a little. “Oh, so you think this iz… si… it’s… _funny_ , do you?”

 

“Only a little,” I say. “I’m not mad at you. Sorry I snapped. You just need some sleep I think, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

 

“Ohhhhh,” he says, standing up slowly as though my words somehow changed everything. “Okay, y-yeah. Let’s go to bed now.” His cheeks are still stained with tears but somehow, he seems better.

 

He sniffles, then slouches and drapes an arm around my shoulders as though to say, “Take care of me.” I can’t help but smile down at him. Carefully, I lead him inside the building, nod once at Petra who is looking disapprovingly at the pair of us from behind the desk, and we make our way up to the fourth floor. There’s music coming from the room across the hall, so at least we’re not the only ones still up.

 

I unlock room 432 quickly, feeling Marco’s weight growing heavier on my shoulder, and twist the doorknob. As soon as Freckles is in, I kick the door shut behind him.

 

There is a sudden sound, almost as though someone were ‘tsk’ing from the corner of the room; it’s quiet, but it doesn’t go unheard. _God,_ I think desperately, _why now?_

 

Reiner is positioned in the chair near the couch, the jizz blanket draped over him like a Miss America sash. His eyebrows are raised as he mutes the television, which I note is currently playing an old episode of House Hunters: International.

 

“You ladies sure are rolling in a little _late,_ ” Studly Muscles says from across the room, tapping at his wrist as though to remind us of the time with his invisible watch.

 

“Shut up, you’re not my real dad,” I joke, but he’s totally serious so I roll my eyes and tell him, “Fine, fine, just let me get this guy to bed.”

 

Marco gives Reiner a little wave which he returns in an almost-too-cute way. I have Marco take his shoes off and drag him to the bedroom, where I make him sit still against the bedpost as I remove the papier-mâché from his cheek and wipe off some of the makeup with the end of my shirt. I then proceed to pull out a pair of pajama pants from his drawer and grab a t-shirt I never see him wear out of his closet (which I’m assuming is used as a nighttime shirt, even though if it were mine, I’d totally wear it day and night – no discrimination, yo).

 

“Here, put these on,” I say, then leave the room quickly to grab him a bottle of water from the living room.

 

This of course means I have to pass Reiner again, and of course, he gives me the stank eye.

 

“You took Marco to one of those frat parties, didn’t you?”

 

“Actually, he took _me,_ ” I clarify, “and I took care of him. Well, tried to.”

 

“I can see that,” he laughs, then looks me up and down. “You look like shit.”

 

A sudden hiccup jerks Reiner’s body. I look over from where I stand near the mini fridge and freezer and survey his position. There’s something in his hand that I hadn’t noticed there before – a beer.

 

“Drinking alone?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “How very uncharacteristic of you. Where’s Bertl?”

 

“He had to go visit his brother this weekend,” he sighs dramatically, “so of course I wasn’t allowed to come. What, is he like ashamed to bring me around his family or something? We’ve been dating for like two and a half years.”

 

“Two and a half years? Really?”

 

He straightens, taking another drink. “Yeah, two and a half… Two years, six months, seventeen days.”

 

I grunt, closing the door to the mini-fridge. “Hn. Oddly specific. I can’t believe you have that all memorized. Or maybe I didn’t really see you as the ‘romantic’ type.”

 

“I’m romantic,” he says, and I watch him take yet another sip of his beer before letting the can drop to the floor – where my eyes widen to find a pile of about eleven empties there to cushion its fall. “I’m like the most fuggin’ romantic guy you’ve ever met. Did you know I have an apron?”

 

I sigh. “An apron?”

 

“Yeah. It’s got frillies and stuff.”

 

“Do you… use it for cooking?”

 

“Not really.” He grabs another beer from out of seemingly nowhere (although I will find in the morning he actually just has a little portable cooler under his seat), cracks it, and glugs deeply. “I originally got it to like, spice up our sex life, ‘cuz you know, I’m like, real worried about keeping things interesting? And so then the other day when he came over, I was just sitting on the couch watching TLC like usual, but except _this_ time I was wearing that apron, and, like, _only_ the apron.”

 

I shudder involuntarily. I didn’t ever want to know these things, but I can’t bring myself to stop him.

 

Luckily, the sound of Marco wailing from our room is enough to cut him off, so I tell him I’ll be back to hear the rest (a total lie) and rush in to see what happened to Marco.

 

I open the door quickly and step inside, surprised to find Marco on the floor with his pants around his ankles. One of his big toes is caught in his belt loop and the other is still stuck in the pantleg.

 

“Help… meeeee…”

 

I blink once. Then twice. I have to cough to clear my thoughts, but once I do, I force a laugh and tell him he’s being such an absolute child, helping him with his pants before holding out his flannels for him to step into. I feel like I’m dressing a two-year-old, a two-year-old that has long legs, and freckles all over their butt – freckles which I can clearly see peeking over the top of his boxers in the back. Wow, they’re so defined up close…

 

Then I help him with his shirt. I pull it first down over his head, flattening his mop of dark brown hair that curves around the contours of his head, and accidentally brush his nose with my fingers.

 

“Whoops,” I laugh, and Marco giggles too. I boop his nose once again for good measure, then help him up into his bunk bed before tucking him in under the covers. I crack the lid on the water bottle I just got for him and place it next to his pillow in case he gets thirsty, then rustle his hair once before turning around and starting toward the door.

 

“Jean,” he says softly – and I make a mental note of the fact he has returned to calling me by my _proper_ name, Jean, as opposed to the very feminine ‘Jen’ which I have been referred to as for the better part of the night. I turn around and find his eyes, my fingers on the light switch next to the doorknob.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Where are you goin’?”

 

I shrug. “I was gonna watch some TV with Reiner, let you get some sleep. You need somethin’?”

 

He doesn’t speak; he just stares at me through half-closed eyelids, his long eyelashes casting little shadows along his freckled cheeks. When he doesn’t speak for another moment, I start to turn back around – but just before I get the door open, he finds his voice.

 

“Jean,” he calls, but his throat makes my name sound a little raspy as it leaves his mouth – from crying. “Will you stay up here with me?”

 

I nearly choke.

 

“You mean…” I trail off, pointing to his bed, “…sleep? In there. With you.”

 

He nods a little.

 

“Um.” I can’t find the right words to say – or any words at all, apparently, as I just stand there with my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water for a few long moments. And then, “Uh, well, sure, I guess.” My face feels hot and I don’t know why, but the thought of sharing a bed with anyone – even if it is Marco, my best friend…

 

… _Especially_ Marco…

 

It’s a weird notion, and his suggestion both perplexes and stuns me.

 

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him quickly then head out of the bedroom, flicking off the light as I go.

 

My back slams against the back of the door and my eyes meet Reiner’s in an immediate lock-on. He’s got a stupid smirk stuck on his dumb face and I want to wipe it right off. But even if there was a way to somehow wipe a smile off of someone’s face, he probably would kick my ass before I even thought about trying it, so instead I just stand there, breathe a deep sigh, and close my eyes. My head rests against the back of the door and I ball my hands into little fists again.

 

But this time, it isn’t because I’m angry. It’s because I’m confused and at a loss for what to do.

 

“You look like you need a wingman,” Reiner says, breaking the silence. I look over at him as he wiggles an eyebrow at me. “I overheard you and Marco are gonna beeeeee…. ayeeee… sllllleepin’ together tonight.”

 

“You’re drunk,” I state, like that’s supposed to discredit anything that leaves his mouth.

 

“And gay, you’re too Jean to function.”

 

I almost choke. “What did you just say?!”

 

“Come onnnnn,” he grins widely. “I can help you two get together, or, maybe even, like…” He holds up his pointer finger horizontally, then makes a small loop with his thumb and index finger on the opposite hand. “Weep-woop-weep-woop,” goes the sound effect as he demonstrates what sex apparently looks like in a very immature, 12-year-old manner, with the pointer finger dipping in and out of the little loop in a proportionately inaccurate way.

 

“Oh, so is that how it goes,” I deadpan, mostly to just humor him.

 

“Pretty much,” he says, hands falling to his lap with a sigh. “There’s a lot of lube involved, too-”

 

I groan unhappily and run both hands through my hair. Who would have known Reiner got so crude when he drank? Certainly not me.

 

“Look, Jean,” he says, evening his tone, “I’m just saying – well, I guess what I’m _trying_ to say – is that if you need anything, I’m here for you man. Bertl too.”

 

Are these guys both under the impression I’m gay? Apparently that’s a popular assumption made tonight by people who really don’t know me that well at all, including Eren Jaeger – who also made it quite clear at the party earlier how he thought I was corrupting Marco or something. Yeah, like I was _gayly_ corrupting him, like that’s even an actual thing.

 

An angry voice inside my head shouts frustratingly: _I’M NOT GAY SO QUIT TELLING ME I AM WHEN I’M NOT, OKAY?! BECAUSE I AM_ NOT _GAY._

 

I try not to dwell on any of what Reiner says too long – although if he was sober, I might have talked to him about this. But he’s not, and he’s sitting there wasted off his ass talking about gay sex, so I leave him to his TLC, grab an aspirin from out of the community bathroom’s cabinet, swallow it dry, and take a look at myself in the mirror upon putting the pill bottle back in and closing it.

 

My face is a mess, and I clearly don’t look like a skeleton anymore. Eren made sure of that when he took to punching my face and (admittedly) kicked the crap out of me. I take a better look at my nose, flare the nostrils, and wince; it hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s not broken. Thank God. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper from the roll no one bothered to put back on the T.P. holder, I wet it down and take off my face. Everything looks raw without the black and white. It’s tender. I pray it doesn’t bruise in the morning.

 

 _Don’t worry, dude,_ I think, trying to stay under control and not act weird as I leave the bathroom. _It’s just Marco. He’s just drunk and weepy and needs comforting, don’t make things out to be anything they aren’t._

 

I half expect, upon returning to the bedroom, that Marco’s going to be passed right the fuck out in bed, probably snoring, maybe even drooling, because he had seemed to be right on the verge of sleep the entire walk home. But through the darkness and against the gleam of a streetlamp right outside the window, Marco’s eyes blink open at me from his bed and I see the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

 

Without saying a word, he scoots over, and I sigh. _Alright, ‘Jen,’_ I think with a quiet laugh, _another moment of your reckoning has come._

 

I hop up into his bed with a giant heave, making room for myself in the little nook he has prepared for me. He’s still lying on his side, facing me, and I scoot down to share his pillow – facing away from him.

 

The bed feels strange, though not completely different from mine. There’s a dip in his where I can tell he’s been sleeping, and everything smells like cinnamon, like him. It’s all I can do not to take a deep breath… it smells nice.

 

Marco sighs, scooting further under the blankets wrapped around him. Suddenly, I feel him pull the blankets up over my shoulders, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders are still tense; I can feel the warmth of his body radiating next to me, and then…

 

“Your feet are cold,” he mumbles. His sock-clad feet move next to mine and I realize how cold I really am. “Your whole body is,” he says again, “do you… hn… need another blanket?”

 

“I’m fine,” I squeak.

 

He laughs lightly, then proceeds to press his forehead to the nape of my neck. I don’t even realize I’m leaning into it until it’s too late, and then his arm is draped over my waist. _Well, now I’m fine,_ I think mildly, letting my eyelids fall shut as I begin to breathe slowly. His body is warm and acts like my own personal space heater.

 

I can feel the rise and fall of Marco’s chest slowly beginning to match time with my own breaths.

 

At first I find that I can’t sleep, mostly because I’m so hyper-aware of the fact that my best friend is totally spooning me, but also because I’m starting to get this really awkward boner… To be honest, I’m just glad I’m facing the other direction.

 

 _Dude… why do you have a boner?_ At first I think it’s just situational, like sometimes you just can’t help it, you know? But then I start meditating on it, and I start thinking… How is it that I feel so different around Marco? How is it, that whenever he’s around, I get this really strange feeling in my chest, a feeling that I can’t help, and all I want to do is be around him?

 

 _He’s your best friend,_ the other half of me fires back. _You’re allowed to love your best friend, right?_

 

Marco sighs again and I can feel his grip on my waist tightening. “G’night, Jean,” he whispers.

 

 _It’s only friendship,_ I think weakly.

 

_…Right?_

 

I can’t sort out the thoughts or feelings swirling around inside my head and heart, so I decide that I need to sleep on the whole thing and save all this confusion for the morning.

 

Clearing my head, I smile, pat him on the arm, and let my fingers linger there for a moment before I whisper back: “Goodnight, Marco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple end notes! (Sorry for all the notes on this chapter guys!) I just wanted to state how sorry I am that this is over 11,000 words, you seriously deserve some kind of award for making it all the way through it.
> 
> Also, the Reiner/frilly apron thing came from [this conversation](http://reibert-sexcapades.tumblr.com/post/72405811944/the-conversations-katie-and-i-have-on-aim-involving) that Katie and I had on AIM. Don't ask. It just kind of happened.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!!! ♡♡♡


	7. finding home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just as a side note, there is a panic attack in this chapter. You have been warned.)  
> I just wanted to say thank you SO SO much for all of the attention on this story lately! Even on tumblr I've seen a post or two mentioning our story. We are so incredibly honored. (: <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, even if it does get sad!

The sunlight seeps in through the window between the cracked curtain. Behind my closed eyelids, I can tell that the room is lighting up. I let out a sleepy sigh, my arms tightening around my pillows as I snuggle closer, nuzzling my face into… _Is this… hair?_

  
  
I open my eyes, blinking a few times, before I can make out the back of Jean’s head in front of me. He’s snoring quietly, a little bit of drool leaking out from the corner of his mouth and dripping onto my pillow. My arms are around him from behind, holding him tightly as we share our warmth; his body is leaned back against mine, his fingers gently gripping at my wrist as if to keep me locked in place.

 

I swallow nervously, feeling my stomach drop and I can’t ignore the growing problem down south as I realize the situation that I’m currently in.

  
  
 _Oh, god_ , I think as I try to delicately remove my arms from around his waist before he wakes up. If he wakes up right now, I have no idea what my excuse would be as to why I have a boner. And oh god it would ruin everything. _Oh my god, oh my god. Please don’t wake up, Jean. Please!_

 

Very carefully, I extract myself from Jean, pausing as he snores a little louder. He rolls over so he’s laying on his back, no longer trapped by my embrace, and one of his arms flings up over my pillow.

 

I get out of bed slowly and as quietly as possible, trying my best not to disturb Jean. Once I manage to get to my feet and stand straight up, a dizzy spell hits me so hard I fall backwards onto the bed, landing on Jean’s feet and startling him awake.

 

“Mmf,” Jean grumbles, propping himself up on his elbows to look at me. “Oi, Marco! You okay?”

 

I lift a hand to my head, the other tugging at my shirt to hide the what I can only describe as the most shameful boner of my life. My head is  _throbbing_ and I can barely see straight. My mouth is dry and I have this strange taste like I’m about to vomit. I groan, hanging my head low, as I try to think through this pain.

 

“Marco?” Jean says, now crawling over to me. “Ah, shit, you’re probably hung over. Hang tight, buddy.”

 

Because I’m scared to stand up again, I just nod in response. He gets out of my bed and rushes toward the bathroom. A few minutes of agonizing pain later, he returns with a glass of water and a small, white aspirin. I take it gratefully, sucking down the water in three gulps, and sigh as the water reaches my stomach. I feel so empty and I can’t remember the last time I ate – it must have been well before the party yesterday.

 

“Here, lay back down,” Jean says as he helps me to shift my body. “First hang overs are the worst.”

 

“This is horrible,” I mumble weakly, closing my eyes half way so I don’t have to squint through the sunlight as much. “Is it always going to be like this after drinking?”

 

“Nah, only if you get really drunk,” he replies, “like you were last night.”

 

I try to smile but it comes off as a scowl which earns a small chuckle from him. Taking a deep breath, I try to let my body relax but the fact that I’m still half-hard makes me uncomfortable and nervous. How would I even begin to explain to Jean as to _why_ I have this problem?

 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say and I roll over to get out of bed without getting dizzy. He helps to steady me as I get back to my feet and I blow out a long breath. “Thanks, Jean,” I whisper and he nods, looking at me with a worried expression on his face. “Be right back.”

 

I shut the bathroom door behind me and lock it, chancing a glance in the mirror at my reflection. My dark hair is tousled and messy from sleep and my face looks pale and my lips are a little chapped.

 

I turn the tap water on, splashing my face with cold water in a weak attempt to get rid of my boner. It doesn’t really help, but it does wake me up a little more. I dry my face with a towel and decide to get my blood pumping. I start jogging in place, glancing down every couple of seconds. After a minute, I’m just out of breath.

 

Internally groaning, I start doing jumping jacks.

 

I breath out as quietly as possible, but I can hear my short bursts of air getting more and more loud. Sweat starts to gather at my hairline and I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about anything unimportant that runs through my mind – anything but Jean.

 

 _Think about that time you dissected a frog in Biology,_ I mentally shout at myself, gritting my teeth together. _Think about that raccoon you ran over with your car last summer, or about that time you had to help grandma clean the bathroom and the drain was full of hair! Oh, god anything but Jean and how he slept in the same bed as me last night!_

 

Relief floods through me after about fifteen jumping jacks. I lean heavily against the wall, my breathing rapid as I try to catch my breath from all the activities. My head is killing me now and I feel like I’m very close to vomiting. I turn the water back on and gulp some down, trying to calm down. After another minute or so, my breathing pattern returns to normal and I unlock the door, heading back into the dorm.

 

Jean’s sitting at the desk, his phone on as he types a reply to someone. He looks up when I finally exit the bathroom. I smile at him to reassure him that I’m fine, even though I feel like dirt, and I climb back into my bed, pulling the blankets up to my chest and sighing.

 

“Are you hungry?” Jean asks, keeping his voice down because he knows I have a headache. I find myself smiling a little because he can be so considerate sometimes, even if he likes to pretend that he’s not. “I could go out and grab you something, or we have those pop-tarts and a few other snacks, I think.”

 

“No, I don’t want to eat anything right now,” I tell him, squinting my eyes at him. He nods, understanding, and slides his phone into his pocket. “Let’s just hang out.”

 

Jean moves from the chair to the spot on my bed where he slept last night. Surprised, I move over so he’s got room, and he lays on his back next to me, our shoulders touching as we look up at the ceiling. A blush creeps up my neck and highlights my face and I’ve got this dumb smile on my face that I can’t wipe off, so I don’t even try. Jean’s too embarrassed to ask me about it, I can tell, because when I glance at him, his cheeks are pink, too.

 

“So,” I say to break the silence, “are you going to tell me what happened with you and Eren last night?”

 

Jean lets out a long, low breath. “I guess I _do_ owe you an explanation,” he mutters, looking across the room and away from me. “That kid just made high school hell for me. I hate him. I _hate_ him.”

 

“Why do you hate him so much?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What did he do?”

 

“Are you sure you wanna hear this, Marco?” he asks incredulously, glancing at me. I prop myself up on my elbows and lean my cheek into my hand to hold my head up before nodding. “Once upon a time, Jaeger and I were pretty tight friends. I told him everything, you know? He knew my family problems and he understood and he didn’t judge me for them. I guess, that’s what I thought, anyway.”

 

He stops for a minute, gathering his thoughts as he picks at a fray on my pillow case. I patiently wait, watching him think about the past. I know it’s hard for him, because his eyebrows are pulled together and he’s scowling again and he’s got wrinkles on his forehead from stress.

 

“We had this fight. It was so stupid, but I was so mad and he was so mad…” Jean trails off, his scowl turning into a deep frown. I reach forward and place one hand on his arm, making him look at me.

 

“It’s okay,” I tell him softly. “If you aren’t ready to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

 

“No, I want to. I do. I want you to know, and you deserve to know,” he replies with a sigh. I squeeze his arm comfortingly and he smiles a little, though it looks sad. “He said some things that I can’t forgive him for. Everything that I ever told him, of all the things he could say… he picked the worst one. It was a low fucking blow, a total dick move and like, the worst thing a friend could do.”

 

He shakes his head, now looking more upset than he had a moment ago.

 

“God, I can’t believe he would use something like that against me,” Jean whispers more to himself than to me. “After that, I was alone. Eren, Mikasa and Armin all were always together and they left me out and it was all because of Eren fucking Jaeger’s big fat, judgmental mouth.”

 

“Did he ever apologize?” I ask.

 

Jean swallows and I watch as his adams apple bobs a little as he does. He looks at me now, his hazel eyes a little glassy. “No,” he says. “I’m sure he didn’t want to. Even if he had, he knew that I wouldn’t of accepted it, anyway.”

 

“Jean?” I say and he raises his eyebrows. “What did he say that was so unforgivable?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells me, brushing it off as he looks back up at the ceiling. “Whatever. It’s in the past.”

 

“Okay.”

 

We’re quiet for a moment, both laying side by side in my bed. Under the blanket, our legs are tangled over each other’s as he talks more and I listen. He talks about high school being lonely, and because of that he felt isolated even when moving here for university. Because he spent years without friends, he said, when he met me, he decided to change it.

 

“I was so miserable in high school,” he says as we lay facing each other now, both propped up on our elbows. One of my legs is tangled between his, and his feet are pressed against mine, stealing my warmth. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to hate it, though. Jean’s cold toes aren’t like anyone else’s cold toes. “And when I met you, I don’t know, it just made me realize that I didn’t want to be alone anymore. Probably that sunny personality of yours, what with being a freckled saint and all.”

 

After a moment, he adds, “Besides, you made me feel so fucking guilty. You were so scared of me at first.”

 

I laugh at that. “I wasn’t scared of you. I just thought you hated me and I was doing whatever I could to make it so you hated me less.”

 

“I couldn’t hate you if I wanted to, Marco,” he says and I can feel my heart skip at beat. I swallow nervously and feel the blush creeping back up as our eyes meet. “Seriously, though. Thank you for being my friend. I know I can be hard to handle sometimes—”

 

“—and you eat all of my food,” I add in with a light laugh.

 

“I just really appreciate you, man,” he finishes, giving me a roll of his eyes. “Sorry about the damn pop-tarts! I bought you _four boxes_ to make up for it!”

 

We both laugh for a second, laying under the blankets of my bed. It’s warm and cozy with him beside me and I’m worried that it’ll feel so empty when I have to sleep by myself again. I tell myself not to be greedy, but it’s so hard not to when he’s laying so close that I can smell his wonderful Jean smell and if I reached just a little, I could run my fingers through his hair.

 

I don’t, though.

 

“You said that Eren knew about your family problems,” I say lightly, if only to get myself to stop thinking about touching Jean in any way that he would deem weird for best friends. “What did you mean?”

 

He doesn’t even look at me as he says, “We’ll save that for another day, Freckles.”

 

I smile a little and nod in response, because I can understand. He’s already told me so much today, and I can’t blame him for not feeling up to telling me more. So I don’t press, and instead, I readjust myself so I’m curled up slightly on my side, and I close my eyes for a little while.

 

It’s quiet for what feels like a long time. At first, I think that Jean’s fallen asleep, and I’m about to follow suit when he speaks up, catching me off-guard.

 

“So what’s your story?” Jean asks after a while of siting in silence. I open my eyes and look over at him, squinting against the sunlight coming in through the window.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Like why do you go home so often?” he clarifies, watching my expression. “And like, why do you work so much but never have any money? Seriously, what is _up_ with that?”

 

I sigh, long and loud, because this is the subject I didn’t want to talk about more than anything. Not because I didn’t trust Jean with those things, but because it’s hard to think about. It’s hard to remember.

 

“I have a little brother,” I whisper, because talking about him out loud is so hard that whispering feels like it’s not as impossible. “Angelo. He’ll be 11 in April. He looks like me, but he’s not very tall yet, and he still has his baby fat on his cheeks. He has our mom’s eyes, not our dad’s, so his are lighter than mine.”

 

I close my eyes and Angelo’s face flashes through my mind at least a dozen times. Him laughing, him playing, swinging, crying, yelling – and then finally, with tubes breathing for him in the ICU at the hospital back home. Tears well up behind my closed eyelids and my chest feels so tight that I can barely breathe. I bite my lip, trying to stop shaking, because this is just _so hard_.

 

“Hey,” Jean whispers, encircling his arms around me. “It’s okay, Marco. It’s okay.”

 

I exhale, long and low, before I let my eyes open again. Jean is there, and he looks scared for a second, before he reaches up to wipe at the wetness under my eyes. I sniffle and wipe furiously at my face, too, because I don’t want to be crying. This isn’t how I want Jean to see me; it’s not how I want anyone to see me.

 

“It was in August,” I say and my voice sounds choked, like I’m trying my hardest not to cry. “He was just walking home from a friend’s house and… it was getting late so it was sort of dark. He was crossing the road and…”

 

“Marco?” Jean whispers, his voice hushed as well. I grip at his shirt for support, hearing my breathing getting more and more rapid as I remember. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to picture it; trying not to remember. I don’t want to remember.

 

“And then he was hit by a car, right there, right in front of the house.”

 

Silence.

 

I sniffle as fresh, hot tears roll down my face and my breathing finally turns so rapid that I have to sit up. I keep gripping at my throat because I can’t breathe and oh god I can’t stop remembering. The blood on the pavement, his body so limp, his breathing the only sound in my ears as it slowly comes to a stop and his pulse slowing… slowing… until it’s gone.

 

I remember the ambulance rushing around the corner, but I don’t remember calling them. I remember his breathing, but I don’t remember screaming, though the neighbors said that I was. I remember the blood on my hands as I pulled his small body closer to mine, resting his head on my lap.

 

 _Stop,_ I try to tell myself, try to fold myself back together. _Stop. Stop crying, Marco. Stop shaking. STOP THINKING!_

 

I remember them loading Angelo into the ambulance and climbing in after him, holding tightly to his hand. They used those paddles to shock him until his heart started beating again; they shouted about head trauma, about needing a transfusion. I remember them taking him in for emergency surgery and having to call my mom.

 

“Marco!”

 

I’m back in the dorm, on my bed. My eyes open wide and I can’t breathe. I try to tell Jean but he already seems to know and he looks so terrified.

 

“Drink this!” He’s handing me a glass of water now, helping me to pour the cold liquid down my dry throat. After a few agonizing minutes of him trying to help me through deep breathing as if I’m a woman in labor, my heart beat slows and I can breathe normally though I feel as though I just ran for miles.

 

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

 

I shake my head, because no, I’m not okay.

 

“You don’t have to talk anymore,” Jean tells me now, rubbing my shoulder comfortingly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry that I asked. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything, I’m sorry, Marco.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him and I give him a small, sad smile. “I’m glad that I told you. You’re my best friend and I want you to know everything. It’s just hard to think about it.”

 

He nods like he understands this and it’s quiet again. I know he’s still curious, but I’m still scared. Finally, I decide that I shouldn’t be scared – it’s Jean. He just helped me cope with a panic attack and he’s still here, in my bed, sitting close to me.

 

“About the work thing,” I start and he looks at me again, our eyes meeting, “I send money home to my mom to help with the hospital bills. It’s just me and her and she works two jobs already to keep up with all the money we owe. I just don’t want her to be so stressed about it, because I know that even if she pretends to be okay, she’s worse off than I am.”

 

“You’re a really great guy,” Jean says and I look at him questioningly. “I don’t know, we just come from really different families, but I don’t think my family would do that for me.”

 

My heart breaks when he says that. I don’t know very much about his family, but I know that if they don’t care about Jean, then it’s their loss. I reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, this time comforting him.

 

“If something ever happened, I would do the same for you, Jean.”

 

He doesn’t say anything after that, but I feel like another shift has taken place. We lock eyes and he smiles, a real, genuine smile with crinkles around his eyes. It may have only been one look, one smile, one moment – but everything feels different after it’s happened.

* * *

Jean insists on ordering pizza.

 

After spending the majority of the early afternoon taking a long nap in my bed, Jean wakes up hungry and offers to buy pizza. I don’t object because I honestly can’t remember the last time I had pizza, and my stomach is growling. After going through the decision of what to have on the pizza, we decide to go with a simple three-meat type and he calls it in.

 

When it arrives, we just take the box over to the couch and decide to watch some TV while we eat. Jean goes through his movie collection, offering titles for me to pick from.

 

“Let’s see,” he says, flipping through a few sleeves of DVDs. “I’ve got Amityville Horror, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Conjuring, Paranormal Activity one, two and three…”

 

“Jean,” I say and he glances up at me from his movie collection questioningly, “those are all scary movies.”

 

“Do you not like scary movies?” he asks, confused. “Because I think I have some like, Medea movies in here too.”

 

I laugh at that, trying to imagine Jean watching a marathon of Tyler Perry movies.

 

Jean holds up _Grave Encounters 2_ in front of his face. He moves it to the side and waggles his eyebrows at me, waiting for an answer.

 

“For the love of god,” I say, exasperated, “not today!”

 

He snorts  and throws a random DVD at me and nailing me in the corner of my eye. I glare at him as I glance at the title, _World War Z_ , before shrugging and tossing it back to him.

 

“Just put that one on, I guess,” I tell him and pat the seat next to me on the couch. “Hurry so we can eat this pizza before it gets cold!”

 

He smiles and puts the movie into the DVD player, changing the channel on the TV so it’s at the proper setting and pressing play. Then, he turns off the light, save for the one lamp in the corner so we can see while we eat, and he takes the seat on the couch beside me. We eat the pizza over the box, not caring how messy it is for the time being.

 

We manage to put the whole pizza away between the two of us and I throw the box out.

 

“This blanket always smells so fucking weird,” Jean mutters as I plop back down next to him. He pulls it up to his nose and sniffs and makes a face before pulling it over the both of us.

 

The movie plays on and I find it difficult to pay attention. Jean is sitting so close to me, both of our feet pulled up onto the couch, and we’re sharing the blanket. I can feel my heart skipping a beat as I lay my hands out flat against the blanket because my palms are starting to sweat.

 

But it makes it worse when I feel self-conscious that he’ll think I’m putting my hand out there for him to hold. Would he think that? Probably not, right? I bite my lip, feeling even _more_ nervous now. All I could think was, _please hold my hand, Jean._

 

He doesn’t.

 

But he does let me slide my feet underneath him when my toes get cold. He groans when I ask, but complies, lifting his hips so I can place my feet under his butt before he sits back down. I smile to myself, feeling my stomach churn like it always does when he lets me have my way.

 

By the time the movie ends, it’s getting late. After our nap, though, we’re both still wide awake. So, we put in another movie and deicide to make it into a marathon. He gets to chose this time, though, and he picks _Fight Club_.

 

“That’s your favorite movie,” I say before I can stop myself. He glances at the movie, then at me, and raises his eyebrow.

 

“How did you know that?” he asks, putting it in and pressing play.

 

“You told me on the first day of class,” I explain, feeling my cheeks get hot. “When we had to do the icebreaker activity. You said Fight Club was your favorite movie, if you had to pick just one.”

 

Jean smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did, didn’t I?” he says thoughtfully. “I can’t believe you actually paid attention to what I was saying.”

 

 _I pay attention to everything you say,_ I think, but out loud, I say, “It was an assignment worth points, of course I was paying attention.”

 

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Marco. You were already pining after me to be your best friend, weren’t you?”

 

I smile. “Probably.”

 

He’s grinning from ear to ear now. As he gets back under the blanket with me, we both move our positions again so he’s leaning heavily on me with his legs hanging over the edge of the arm of the couch. My nose is filled with his wonderful Jean scent and I breathe in deeply, closing my eyes and trying to commit the scent to memory.

 

It’s in this position, with Jean laying with his head falling back on my shoulder and his legs hanging over the couch, that we fall asleep again. My head slowly drops down to rest on top of his as my eyes feel heavier and heavier.

 

I let them close, falling into sleep with a smile on my face and Jean’s scent all around me.

* * *

“Hey, Freckles!” Jean calls as he heads toward the bathroom where I’m standing in front of the sink and mirror, tweezers poised between my eyebrows. “Got any laundry you need done?”

 

I yank a hair out and wince, rubbing at the sore spot. “Um, yeah! I have a few things, actually. I’ll go with you, just a sec.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

I pause, holding the tweezers away from my face, and turn to look at Jean. He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, giving me an incredulous look as he watches me in front of the mirror. In his arms is a basket full of what I presume to be dirty clothes, though they look the same as his clean ones.

 

“Are you _plucking your eyebrows_?” he asks.

 

“I have to,” I reply with a shrug, facing the mirror again and pulling out a couple thick hairs between my eyebrows. “If I don’t keep up with it, I get a unibrow.”

 

Jean snorts and starts to laugh. I roll my eyes at him, plucking a couple more hairs and wincing afterwards. The spot between my brows turns bright red and I sigh at my reflection when I’m finished.  _Oh well…_

 

I walk by him and into the main part of our room and collect my dirty clothes from my hamper, placing them into a basket. I reach into my wardrobe for my fabric softener, detergent, and dryer sheets before following Jean out of the dorm.

 

The laundry room is in the building near the front desk. As we’re passing by, I offer a wave to Petra. She smiles and waves back before returning to her conversation with the black haired, short guy leaning against the counter. His head turns to see who she waved to and he looks at Jean and I. His expression is somewhat scary, so I avoid eye contact and hurry on my way with Jean.

 

The laundry room is tiny. It’s got a bench against one wall and three sets of washers and dryers on the other. I occupy one, separating all of my light clothes from the dark into two neat piles and start running the water with the detergent properly measured. I glance over to Jean and watch as he dumps all the contents of his basket (which is not organized by lights and darks) into the washer.

 

“Jean, what are you doing?” I ask and he looks up at me with a scowl before returning to the washer before him.

 

“Laundry.”

 

“You’re doing it wrong,” I point out and he looks at me again, then at his clothes in the washer. “You have to separate your clothes otherwise they could bleed color onto your white stuff.”

 

“ _What_?” he asks, exasperated.

 

I come over and pick his clothes out, thankful that he hadn’t turned the water on yet, and put them back into his basket. He has a lot of denim and a few t-shirts of various colors, but a good portion of which are white.  I pick up all the denim, make sure the buttons are done and the zippers are closed before I neatly toss them inside.

 

“You should wash all jean things together,” I say, now turning the water on for him. “Then, the rest of this stuff is mostly white so you can do all of that together. But since you have two dark t-shirts, you can throw them in with your jeans.”

 

He sighs, watching as I toss the last two items in before I add detergent for him. I add a little fabric softener too, just for good measure.

 

“I’ve always just thrown everything in,” Jean says with a scowl on his face. “My clothes have always turned out just fine.”

 

“You’ve never had something turn pink because you mixed a new red shirt with white socks?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow at him. His scowl fades into thought and then he rolls his eyes, muttering a “whatever” under his breath.

 

“So now I’ve got to sit through _another_ load of laundry? This is going to take for-fucking-ever, man,” he whines now, sitting on the bench and slumping back against the wall. “I don’t want to do this. I hate laundry.”

 

I chuckle at his childishness. “No, we can just combine our lights into one load since there isn’t much, anyway.”

 

I toss my clothes in and start the water, adding the necessary cleaning products to get the job done, and then I start to add Jean’s in. My fingers come up with a pair of his boxers and I swallow hard, because holy crap _I’m touching his boxers_ and oh my _god_ I’m starting to sweat nervously.

 

I throw them in and take a deep breath so I don’t start thinking weird things again and then close the lid so the washer can start washing everything.

 

“Should we play video games in the lounge to pass the time?” I ask and Jean scoffs at me. Ever since the first night we played together and I kept beating him, he doesn’t like to play against me. I think he’s just a sore loser.

 

“Nah,” he says, letting his head bonk against the wall behind us. “Let’s just chill for a while. It’s been a rough day.”

 

I nod in agreement. Though it’s only Tuesday, I’m ready for the week to be over already. With finals getting closer and closer, I’ve been trying to study harder and it’s stressful to think about. Even at work, Armin and I struggle to help each other study for our medical terminology class because we’re so stressed about all of our other classes.

 

Within a few minutes, Jean’s soft snoring fills the room. I glance at him and can’t help but smile because who falls asleep in the laundry room?

 

He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping sometimes. Right now, his lips are parted just slightly, allowing the snores to fill the room, but he looks sort of happy. A lot of the time, he’s scowling, even in his sleep.

 

I sigh and lean my head back against the wall, too. Closing my eyes, I listen to the sound of the washers spinning our clothes and I think of mine and Jean’s clothes mixing together in the middle one. Something as simple as combining our clothes into one load makes me feel so happy that I have to fight back the smile.

 

_Maybe because you’re imagining that you’re just doing your boyfriend’s laundry._

 

I sigh again.

 

If only that was the case.


	8. got a sunset in my veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everybody for all the love! We don't reply to every single comment but we read them all and it seriously makes our day that you guys take the time to leave us little messages just to tell us what you think.
> 
> Okay, just a couple things I wanted to say to start out this chapter:
> 
>  **1.** Katie and I are both tracking the tags [fic: as much as i ever could](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:-as-much-as-i-ever-could) and [fic: amaiec](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:-amaiec) on Tumblr, so if you make a post about the story or something, put it there so we can find it!  
>  **2.** I have completely random and unjustified headcannons about Marco, one of which is that he loves Hall and Oates. Be prepared.  
>  **3.** There are copious amounts of blushy-boyfriends awaiting you. My apologies.  
>  **4.** On a slightly sad note, Katie and I are both back to school now, which means our updates probably won't be as frequent as they have been. But, that being said, we're both going to be working on this story as often as we can and keep the updates as frequent as possible. :-)
> 
> Thanks again guys! Hope you like the chapter!! ♡♡♡

Two weeks before finals, on a frost-bitten Monday morning, I wind up accidentally matching Marco Bodt.

 

We’re both still half-asleep after being woken up only moments ago by Marco’s dumb alarm clock-radio playing Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do.” And I hate Sheryl Crow. Especially _that_ song. I roll out of the bunk bed and precisely land on my feet, scratching at the back of my neck. Even Marco seems more tired than usual, dragging his feet and slowly sliding the hangers in his closet. He doesn’t even seem to feel like picking out an outfit today – and I sure as hell don’t.

 

Maybe it’s the rain drizzling outside that might start to freeze on our way to class. Maybe it’s the fact that he worked late the other night and I stayed up waiting for him to get back to the dorm because I worry too much about his safety than what I know is healthy. Whatever it is, it’s all I can do to keep my eyelids from falling shut as we dress ourselves on opposite sides of the room, backs to one another.

 

I don’t mean to pull on that dumb sweater Marco had coerced me into buying with him. I mean, maybe I do – but I sure don’t mean to wear it on the same day _he_ does. To the same _class_ he does. It’s more of a subconscious thing that I even take it off the hanger in the first place, and I sure as hell am not awake or attentive enough to check up on Marco and what he’s wearing to Chemistry.

 

So when I turn around after getting that sweater situated on my shoulders and my pants pulled on, and once I catch sight of the very article of clothing Marco has got pulled over his head, I stare back at him dumbfounded.

 

My tired eyes from moments before are now wide and awake. I cough, clearing my throat, and say:

 

“Well, one of us is going to have to change.”

 

Marco folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t see why.”

 

I’m sputtering now. “Because! We’re adults, dude! And everyone in class is going to see us and-“

 

 “They aren’t going to say anything, Jean!” he shoots back, though his expression looks kind of hurt. “It’s college, not middle school – and it looks nice on you!”

 

I tug at the hem. “So then _you_ change.”

 

“No.”

 

I’m shocked by how stern Marco suddenly is – though this is probably because he’s a little cranky in the morning and it’s crumby outside and neither of us want to walk through the rain, and I’m being a little bitch about something I probably shouldn’t give two shits about.

 

I sigh. “Well…”

 

He rolls his eyes and starts to turn back around, as though back on the lookout once again for something new to wear. But I see the way his shoulders slouch down as if some invisible weight is pushing on him, and there’s a certain sadness in his movements that follow his words. “Okay, I’ll change. If it will make you happy, _I will change._ ”

 

“No!” I spout suddenly – and I surprise myself when I do, because a part of me really wishes he _would_ change so I don’t have to, but then there’s that other part of me (a part that is small, a part I try and shove _way way_ _way_ into the back of my mind) that doesn’t want either of us to change… Which leaves me standing there confused as his wide eyes find mine, void of any crankiness he had exhibited moments before.

 

He’s awake now.

 

“I mean,” I scoff, “you don’t have to change… and I won’t, either.”

 

“Are you sure?” he says softly, looking down at his sweater and smoothing his hands down along the sides. “I didn’t mean to sound angry – I just thought we could both…” Something in his tone shifts and I see his face turn a strange pink.

 

“We both look good in it,” I say starkly, but my tone eases a bit as I continue. “Fuck what they think anyway. We’re gonna be the Chem class sweater-twin dream-team.”

 

Marco grins widely – and I can tell that my words made him feel better. I think I’m getting the hang of cheering Marco up, and I’m not sure how, but it’s becoming easier.

 

From what I understand, he sure does need cheering up. Especially after his panic attack the other day. I try to push the image of Marco from my mind, the one of him crying, _real_ tears this time, and not the fat tears of ‘first-time-hammered’ Marco I’d seen when we went to that dumb Halloween party. The tears I wiped off of Marco’s face as he sat shaking and crying were full of fear, and the look in his eyes that morning was unforgettable.

 

So if wearing these matching sweaters can put a smile on his face, I’ll do it. And I might not like it… but I sure don’t hate it.

 

That’s good enough for me.

* * *

 

Marco gets a call from his Mom on Thursday night.

 

He doesn’t have work for the next couple days (which is a first) and to be honest, I can tell he needs a day off. That doesn’t mean he isn’t working his ass off – and so am I, but Marco’s studying is taken to a whole new level. He sits beneath his bunk bed, hunched over the table with medical books strewn out all around him. There’s even one in his lap that he glances down at, focusing on specific lines with the point of his pen before returning to the laptop on which he types furiously.

 

Like I said, I’m studying too, but to be honest, most of my classes are easy – or, easier than Marco’s. Since I’m undecided, I’m taking all my prerequesites, including a first-year experience class (blowoff), Drawing I (no exams), Sociology (I took a class in high school so I already know all the shit), and Chemistry with Marco, which is the only class I actually need to be studying for.

 

We’re sitting in a comfortable silence with some quiet acoustic music playing in the background, coming from Marco’s laptop. I don’t ask what song it is but I find myself humming along – and I realize I’ve heard him play it before, maybe a few times. At least enough for me to know the tune.

 

Marco audibly groans above the sound of strumming and I look across the room at him. He’s dropped the pen and now has both hands running through his hair, fingers gripping at the ends.

 

“This is so frustrating,” he grumbles.

 

I sigh, feeling sorry for the kid. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

He spins a little in his chair to face me, letting his hands fall from his head and plop lazily down into his lap. “You know anything about Paroxysmal Oscillopsia?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” I smirk. “I pretty much wrote the book on Pear…Oxy Clean… Osmosis Jones.”

 

Marco laughs loudly, and for a second he doesn’t look as stressed out as I know he’s feeling. But I know better. A moment later, as soon as his laughter dies down, he’s got that same miserable expression on his face.

 

There’s a pang in my chest.

 

“Hey, Marco,” I say slowly. He turns back around in his chair and looks up at me through the rungs of his bedframe. I lean forward a little, chest pressing down on the open textbook in front of me, and prop my chin up with my hands. “You look like you could use a little fun.”

 

“Fun?” he repeats, like it’s a foreign term, something he doesn’t remember because of how on-edge all of the homework is making him.

 

“Yeah. We should do something fun.”

 

He shakes his head. “I have too much school work to do for—”

 

Just then, the sound of Marco’s cell phone going off cuts through his words and silences him. I crane my neck forward, looking down at him. It isn’t often he gets calls, and I rarely _ever_ get them. My first thoughts are: _Maybe it’s a spam call, maybe it’s a fucking telemarketer. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s Armin trying to call him to cover at work or something stupid like that._ But to be honest, any of those things would be better than who it actually is. Or, rather,  _why._

 

He pauses, staring at the phone in his hand for a moment. He looks up at me and smiles a little. “It’s my Mom,” he says happily, then brings the phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

 

What both of us hear coming from the other end is enough to wipe the smile right off his face.

 

My heart drops to my stomach.

 

There’s a lot of muffled crying – no, not crying, _sobbing._ It’s his mother and she’s sobbing, and for a moment, Marco looks completely dumbfounded, like he can’t even believe what he’s hearing.

 

“Mom—” he starts, but stops when she says something else.

 

I can pick up a few of the words, but not all of them. “…miss you… Angelo… I’m so lonely…”

 

“Mom,” he says, and every inch of his face reads pain. He can’t hide it. It’s as though everything he’s been internalizing for the past few months has been brought to light, and it’s all because of this one phone call. I notice his eyebrows as they crease together, and his eyes as they squint a little, like he’s fighting back tears or something. He closes the book in his lap and sets it on the floor, standing from his chair.

 

He pulls the phone away from his ear after a minute of silence, looks up at me, and says, “I’ll be back in a little bit.” His voice sounds hushed, his throat tight, and his jaw appears clenched. I just nod at him silently and watch as he ducks out of the dorm room, hurrying past Reiner and Bertholdt in the living room and out the door. It closes with a squeak, and from out in the living room, the television’s volume decreases.

 

The footsteps approaching my door are doubled. Reiner and Bertholdt peek their heads in and I look down at them, still a bit in shock myself… and I don’t know what to say.

 

“Is he okay?” Bertholdt whispers.

 

“Please tell me you didn’t—” Reiner starts, but I interject quickly.

 

“I didn’t do anything, I swear.” My tongue is sharp and my stomach feels hollow. “His mom,” are the only other words I can manage, and even though it doesn’t seem like enough, they both nod sadly and leave the room. Reiner lingers in the doorway a moment longer and gives me a look, one that I can’t place, but I know I should be able to. Something about it is sad.

 

I sit in the quiet of the room, save for the sound of Marco’s music still playing softly from the laptop on his desk. I think about going out there, following after him to make sure he’s okay, but eventually I decide he needs his space. He needs to speak to his mom in private, and I need to respect that.

 

 _So Marco’s mother is lonely,_ I think sadly. She must miss her son a whole hell of a lot to call him crying – probably because her other son is in critical condition. She hasn’t been able to speak to him in months, and her other one is away at college, too far from home to visit as much as he wants to. _She just wants her family back._

 

I lean way back in bed and stare blankly up at the ceiling. I can really only imagine these concepts. Families. When I think of mine, nothing comes to mind except a blurry image of my old man. My step-sister got married and moved away. My step-mother… I force her face out of my head, or try to. I try to block out the way she brushes past me, the way her gaze lingers on mine from all the way across the dining room table back at home when we sit down for dinner. When Dad’s away on business trips, it’s just her and me. Both silently loathing each other as the sound of our knives scraping china plates fills the room.

 

The last time I smiled around my family was at Klaudia’s wedding. I danced with her after my father, and after her new husband, and after it had been a good long while because I was not quite family to everyone else in my family – even after being around for nineteen years. But Klaudia wasn’t like them. She was sweet and good and she put up with my bad attitude. We got along most days and she let me dance with her on her wedding night, despite the mean looks her mother shot me with every step we took on the dance floor.

 

I must have said something stupid and she laughed at me, hitting my chest and twirling the bottom of her dress so that I wouldn’t step on it. At the very end of the song, she hugged me, and her lips trembled a little as she said: _“You will always be my brother. Never let them make you feel like you aren’t good enough.”_

 

But she left the next morning for a honeymoon in Hawaii with the husband who was just alright in my opinion. They spent a whole month there, and then they moved out to Europe where their new jobs were stationed. We don’t speak often enough.

 

I’m lost in thought for so long I don’t even realize it turn dark outside our window until it is. That awful feeling returns to my stomach when I hear the door to the dorm room open, a few mumbles of Reiner saying something to Marco and a quick, quiet reply on his end. Then his footfalls make their way back into our room and Marco returns to the seat he’s been stuck in for the better part of the afternoon.

 

Sitting up in bed, I look back down at him.

 

“Hey, Marco,” I say, only able to see the back of his head as he picks up his pen and starts back on his work – or _tries_ to, at least. “You alright?”

 

“Fine,” he says, but his voice sounds a little hoarse.

 

I open my mouth at first to call him out on the bullshit, but then I realize he doesn’t _want_ to tell me about it. He doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does.

 

“You’re a strong guy, Marco,” is all I say, still watching him from the end of my bed.

 

He’s slow to turn around, hesitating before he does so. My eyelids close slowly and I try to clear my face of emotions he wouldn’t want to see, stuff like sympathy, or self-pity, or genuine sadness. I feel it all, but I try and look tough for his sake – and mine.

 

I catch sight of his face and notice it’s splotchy. Pink blotches scatter across his cheeks, across the little tan freckles that line his nose and stop at his smooth jawline.

 

He laughs once, though it’s devoid of all humor. He tries to smile, but can only just manage it.

 

“I’m not strong,” he whispers sadly, and his voice breaks at the end.

 

I hop off the bed and am at Marco’s side in an instant. Neither of us needs to say anything, we just know. I don’t have time to think about my actions, anyway; my body simply acts on its own accord. Within a matter of seconds, my arms are around Marco’s shoulders, hoping that I’m holding him just tight enough so that he doesn't fall apart.

 

“She works on Thanksgiving,” is all he can manage to say.

 

It takes a second for me to realize the meaning behind his words, but when I do, I breath a dejected sigh. _That means Marco will be stuck here for the holiday._

 

I shake my head quickly, trying to stop him from feeling sorry for himself. I feel sorry enough for the pair of us without him – and knowing he must have cried out there in the hallway just makes me feel worse.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, either.”

 

“You aren’t?” he mumbles into my neck with a sniff.

 

“Nope.” I pause. “We can have Thanksgiving here.” The rest spills out nervously after, and I try not to make it weird since I’m still holding Marco, but some things are just easier said when you don’t have to face the person. I don’t know what makes it so hard for me to look at him, but I keep my hold tight and my gaze fixed on the wrinkled edges of his shirt to steady myself.

 

“And tomorrow, I’m taking you out.” Everything is quick to leave my mouth, like I’m trying to spit the words out before I regret them. “You can study later, and besides, finals aren’t for another couple weeks. You need a break, and you need to be reminded that it isn’t always going to feel like this. This will get better.” I shake his shoulders gently, finally pulling away. Gripping them, I do my best to look into his face – into his eyes, which are wet, but not spilling.

 

“Okay?” I reiterate.

 

He laughs once, closing his eyes and looking down into his lap. When his eyes meet mine again, they are a bit drier, and his cheeks which are still splotchy seem a bit more evenly blushed.

 

With a nod, Marco wipes the corners of his eyes with his wrist.

 

“Okay.”

* * *

 

I wake up feeling mostly sad because I’d been up late last night, listening to the sound of Marco sniffing and wiping at his eyes when he thought I’d been asleep. But I wasn’t.

 

Marco has cried too much lately for his own good. There’s this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about how his cheeks will be permanently tear-stained for the rest of the semester if I don’t do something about it soon.

 

It’s this thought that forces me upright in bed as my own alarm goes off on my phone, a good half-hour before Marco’s clock-radio is set to ring. Something in me has changed, and I can’t put my finger on quite what it is. I’m careful not to wake Marco and tip-toe around all of the shit I still have sitting out on the floor, then head out across the living room and make a b-line for the shower. I don’t waste time, and immediately begin the rigorous process of scrubbing my body with a bar of soap, shampooing my hair, and drying off. In fact, it hardly takes me ten minutes to get it all taken care of.

 

I look in the mirror at myself, running both hands through my hair to lift it off of my scalp (because, let’s be honest, if I don’t, it just clings to my head all day and I look like a wet rat; it’s awful). Then I brush my teeth, slick on some deodorant, and walk quietly back to our dorm room where the sound of Marco still snoogin’ in his bed greets me softly. I click the door shut behind me and begin the process of picking out clothes for the day.

 

Except this time, it’s more difficult. I can’t find the right pants to go with the right shirts, or the right shirts to go with the right pants, which is usually never a problem. But for some reason, today, it is.

 

There’s a fucking pep in my step, for Christ’s sake.

 

 _You need to pull yourself together, Jean. You’re just taking Marco out today! There’s no need to be weird about it…_ But even as I think it, I realize suddenly that I have _every_ reason to be weird about it. And it’s all because of something growing inside my chest, something that happens more and more whenever I’m with Marco, and as much as I don’t want to come to terms with it, I know I’m going to have to sort it out eventually.

 

I groan, deciding on a pair of dark-denim blue jeans before moving on to select a top. I flick back through my choices again, and then _again,_ until finally it dawns on me that I already know what it’s gotta be.

 

“Please don’t be smelly,” I whisper desperately, bending down to my hamper filled with clothes I’ve worn throughout the week. I sift through socks and underwear and sleep shirts and flannels until I find it: that damn sweater.

 

Over my shoulder, I manage a quick glance over into Marco’s closet. I can see the red sleeve of it peeking out of the door. _His is clean,_ I muse to myself, _perfect._

 

I bring my own sweater up to my nose and take a deep breath. _Could be a lot worse._ I pull it on without another thought.

 

With one last look at the clock next to his bed, I see the bright lights glaring _9:57_ back at me. That’s when I get the idea to switch it off and just wake him up myself – because I’m impulsive and stupid and I feel like doing it.

 

I click the little switch to off so that Cheryl Crow doesn’t interrupt me as I climb up into his bed and kneel beside him. Planting one hand firmly on the bed near Marco’s torso, I lean forward a little and look down at him, taking in this sight before I wake him up and he loses that pre-wakeup innocence.

 

And, _God,_ does he look innocent. His eyelashes are all laced together, long and full and casting little shadows that trickle down his cheeks where all of those damn freckles are scattered. His mouth is open and little puffs of air blow out every few seconds. Part of me doesn’t want to disturb him at all anymore, and as fucking creepy as it sounds, I think just sitting there, watching him like that would have been alright with me.

 

But instead of wasting time with that (especially when I took the time to look nice and get ready for the fucking awesome day we’re about to have) I press my other hand to his shoulder and shake it lightly.

 

“Hey, Marco.” My voice sounds strange in my own ears; it’s hushed, a low murmur not much louder than a whisper. But there’s something else there, too. “Time to get up.”

 

He’s non-responsive at first and I start feeling like maybe I should have just tackled him awake, but then he blinks one eye open and recognizes that I’ve let myself up onto his bed.

 

A soft smile appears on his lips that makes me glad I didn’t.

 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” I grin widely.

 

“Hn,” he grumbles, his voice gruff from the sleep still wearing off, and he props himself up on his elbows that dig into his pillow. “What time is it?” A yawn pries itself from his lips and he wipes at the sleep in the corners of his eyes.

 

“Almost ten,” I reply. “Thought you could use a bit of a personalized wake-up call since I’ve gotta set the tone for the day.”

 

Marco grins. “It’s starting out pretty amazing.” Then his eyes meet mine and I struggle to look away, laughing as I do as I bring a hand up to grab the back of my neck. It’s warm.

 

“W-Well,” I say, pulling both arms back (after realizing that I’ve still got one gently holding Marco’s shoulder _oh shit_ ) before lowering myself down from the bunk bed. “Get changed… Gotta get this ball rolling, y’know.”

 

He laughs a little, still wiping at his eyes, and mumbles an obligatory “okay, okay” just to appease me. I leave the room and grab something quick to eat from off my pantry shelf, which has been totally stocked lately since I know I have to buy enough for both me and Marco. Our shelves kind of merged together over the course of the semester, so half of my stuff is on his tier and half is in its rightful place on mine.

 

I pop my head in the dorm room, making sure Marco didn’t fall back asleep, and am surprised by what I see.

 

“Oi, dude,” I say, chewing a bite of granola bar as I speak. “What do you think you’re doing?”

 

Marco is standing at his mirror, eyeing his reflection over his shoulder with his hands on his hips. His head quickly whips around and his eyes meet mine in horror, like I just caught him doing something I wasn’t supposed to – though I don’t know why.

 

“I was just making sure I didn’t have a cowlick,” he says with a shaky voice.

 

“I wasn’t talking about whatever the heck you were just doing in the mirror,” I state boredly, then move my eyes to the jean shirt he’s wearing. “I meant _that._ ” Then I point at it for good measure.

 

This seems to thoroughly confuse him. He squints his eyes and looks down at himself briefly before looking back up, appearing even more perplexed than before. “What?”

 

I swallow the granola and sigh. “Your shirt,” I tell him. “We’re wearing the sweaters today, so change.”

 

Marco stops. Blinks. Looks from me too his closet, eyes lingering on the sweater sleeve just barely visible through the door’s crack, then slowly moves his eyes back to mine. They’re wide and his eyebrows are raised high like this was the last thing he expected me to say.

 

“Really?”

 

I fold my arms across my chest, averting my gaze as an embarrassing hue of pink appears on my cheeks.

 

 “Just hurry up and put it on before I change my mind.”

* * *

We take the subway to the city – I buy Marco’s ticket, much to his dismay, but I really don’t mind. It’s no skin off my back (what with it only costing a few dollars), and besides, I feel like I should be treating _him_ today. He’s the one who needs to let loose, as it is. The ride is crowded, but not so much that we don’t manage to snag a couple seats after the first few stops.

 

Marco looks out the window as our car starts back up again – and as I check the map on my phone, I calculate the stops it takes until we get to ours, which is two away. His eyes follow the trees and road signs, glazing over eventually until I can tell he’s lost in thought beside me.

 

Finally, after an entire morning of wondering, he speaks up.

 

“Where are we even going?”

 

“Good question,” I reply smugly.

 

He then focuses his attention on me, giving me what can only be described as “the look” – a stern, almost motherly way of chastising a child who is sassing too much for their own good.

 

“It’s not like I don’t know where,” I say, “it’s just that I wanted it to be a surprise.”

 

He laughs. “You know, the fact that you wanted it to be a surprise really doesn’t surprise me at all.”

 

“I’m a man of mystery,” I say as my thumb and forefinger meet my chin as though pondering something very deep (but really what was so deep about where we were going – it was basic as fuck). And even though I told him I wanted it to be a surprise, and the suspense was probably killing him, it was becoming clear, the closer and closer we approached to our destination, that the place we were going wasn’t all that special at all. It really _was_ basic as fuck, and my stomach churned at the thought of letting Marco down.

 

Marco laughs again, and the elderly woman sitting next to us smiles softly in our direction. He shifts in his seat as he notices the look she gives us, which isn’t just kind, it’s _knowing._

 

I cough, earning his attention, and the subway slows to a stop.

 

“We’re getting off at the next one.”

 

His eyes light up at this and I fight the urge to smile like a total idiot.

 

The lady stands, gives us another quick smile over her shoulder, and hobbles out with her cane in hand. I look over at Marco as the doors shut and shake my head, both of us thinking the same thing: _What the heck was that all about?_

 

“She probably thought we were a couple,” I smirk, wiggling my eyebrows a little as I tap him on the leg with my foot.

 

Marco is quiet for a second, which makes me falter. But he smiles and rolls his eyes a second later, muttering something like, “Quit being smart.” Now it’s my turn to laugh, and I kick his leg a little harder this time. He looks back over at me, his eyebrows raising.

 

“Oh, do you really wanna go there?”

 

“Oh, I really do.”

 

He kicks me with the toe of his boot and I don’t hesitate to return the gesture. He elbows me in the ribs. I smack him on the side of his neck. Before long, it turns into a full-blown smacking and kicking match which only ends when the mother sitting across from us scoffs loudly, grabbing her son’s hand and tugging him closer to her.

 

“Okay, okay,” Marco says, holding up both hands. “I’m out.”

 

“Ha! I win.”

 

“Only because I  _let_ you,” he retorts with a cheesy grin.

 

Suddenly, the bells in the overhead ding and I look up. “This is our stop,” I say, shooting Marco a look before standing up, shifting the weight of my messenger bag on my shoulder before zipping my coat up a little further and grabbing the pole in the middle of the walkway.

 

Marco stands too, but stumbles a little. I almost shoot a hand out to help steady him, but he grabs the pole before I get a chance.

 

The doors open and we walk out into the station, head up two sets of stairs, squeeze past a few random strangers, and make our way out into the chilly autumn afternoon.

 

I pull out my phone and check the map again. “It says the place should be two blocks that way,” which I then point to, so we’re both on the same page, “then one block _that_ way,” I point to the left, “and it will be on the right.”

 

“So you’ve never been to the place you’re taking me?”

 

I chuckle. “Not sketchy at all, right?”

 

We’re both quiet for a moment as we start in the direction I just described. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. I look over at him. “I trust you.”

 

 _Have I really done anything to be all that trustworthy?_ I think lightly as we cross the street. _I mess everything up. I run from campus security, set your sweaters on fire, eat your Pop Tarts when you’re away, get in fights with people you’re trying to befriend, and sleep while you do my laundry. I haven’t given you a_ single _reason to trust me._

 

Even still – Marco smiles like he’s completely sure of what he’s just said, and I have to believe him when he does.

 

“Oh!” I shout suddenly, seeing the neon light flashing at the entrance of our destination at the end of the block. My arm shoots forward, pointing wildly at it as a surge of excitement rushes over me. “Right up there!”

 

Marco cranes his neck to see what I’m about to get him into, and when he does, he deflates a little.

 

That anxious feeling I had earlier, the one of letting him down, was totally justified, and in my chest, I feel a pang of sadness. My steps begin to slow until I’m at a standstill with Marco close behind me.

 

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “I mean, I know it’s kind of lame, but I just thought…” I trail off, running a hand through my hair. _Why am I getting so nervous?_

 

“No, Jean,” he says, offering me a small smile, though I can sense the apprehension still apparent in his features. “It isn’t that. It’s just…”

 

I wait for him to say something more, but when he doesn’t, I quirk an eyebrow. “What?”

 

His cheeks turn a little pink which, giving him the benefit of the doubt, could possibly be from the wind. “Well,” he starts slowly, “it’s just that I never learned _how._ ”

 

I can’t stop my jaw from dropping open and staring openly at him in disbelief. “You never learned how to _bowl?_ ”

 

“It’s not like I’ve never gone!” he says defensively. “I’m just terrible at it! Angelo’s amazing, but I’m-” He cuts himself off, realizing that he had just mentioned his brother. I see it crash over him like a wave, painful and choking and violent as it seeps into his eyes.

 

“Hey,” I say, trying to think of something to shake him out of the reverie he’s being sucked down into. His eyes meet mine and I reach a hand up to tug at his jacket sleeve. “If you’re bad, I’m probably worse. But if by some stroke of luck I _am_ better at it than you, I’ll teach you. Okay?”

 

He’s quiet a moment before allowing himself to smile, then says, “Okay,” and follows me in the direction of the bowling alley down the block.

* * *

The place is strangely deserted. There’s a father-son duo ballin’ near the front entrance, but aside from them and the workers, the 24-lane bowling alley is empty. There’s a Katy Perry song playing on the speakers and our shoes glow against the neon lighting looming over us.

 

How fucking _cosmic._

 

Marco follows me closely, as it’s rather dark inside and smells like smoke. _Okay, so this place is a little dumpy,_ I figure, _but it was the only bowling place around, and god dammit, I’m going to have to make do with it._

 

We approach the counter where a man sits on his cellphone, playing what appears to be Candy Crush Saga. He’s a big guy with a little mole under his lip and smells like chili cheese fries. I shudder involuntarily, then stiffen my shoulders and look him straight in the eye.

 

“Can I help you?” he replies slowly, making no move to stop in the middle of his game; his thumb hovers over the screen mid-swipe.

 

“We need a lane,” I tell him, “and a size 9 shoe, and a size 10 shoe.”

 

He sighs, finally dropping his phone on the counter face-down and swivels in his seat toward the computer. His sausage fingers press a few keys on the keyboard and then click twice with his mouse. When he turns back to us, he gives me the look-over before telling me the price.

 

“That’ll be $25 for your first game, plus the shoes.”

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco moving to grab his wallet out of his pocket, but I move too quickly and flash my credit card in the guy’s face before he can even pull it out.

 

“Jean,” Marco says hotly, furrowing his eyebrows. “That’s too much.”

 

“It’s really not,” I reply with a wave of my hand, brushing his words off.

 

“Then I’ll buy the next game.”

 

I look over at him and smile cheekily. “Nope. Today’s all on _me,_ remember?”

 

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but when the man returns with my card and two pairs of shoes, he seems to forget what was on his mind. “Thanks,” I tell the guy, even though he really didn’t do anything to solicit a thanking, particularly due to his complete and utter lack of hygiene and competence.

 

He slides the shoes toward us and points to the very far end. “Lane 23,” Chili Cheese Fries says with a grunt.

 

I don’t reply, and instead just nod at him and grab both pairs of shoes, leading the way toward the second-to-last lane in the entire place. I don’t mind though – we could use a little privacy.

 

“So, uh, Jean,” Marco says as I set our stuff down on the table and take a seat, “how did you know my shoe size?”

 

Now I’m the one turning pink. “Um,” I start smoothly, “you leave your shoes at the front door next to mine so I happened to see the number in the bottom.”

 

He grins, and my answer seems to appease him. But really, what I told him was kind of a lie… I just didn’t want to seem like a creep. I wanted to come prepared today, so I did a little snooping last night to find out what size he wore. It’s not weird, okay? It’s called _being thoughtful_. God.

 

“Okay,” I say, tying up the laces of the awful red-and-blue bowling alley shoes before standing. “So now we have to go pick out a ball.”

 

Marco slips off his boots and starts bunny-earing his shoelaces, staring hard in concentration. I force my eyes away, instead looking down the lanes until my eyes land on that father-son duo all the way at the other end. The little boy can’t be more than ten years old. I watch as he takes his stance at the beginning of the lane, pulling his arm back, and throwing the ball with a surprising amount of force – and then as the ball strikes the pin at the forefront and takes down _every single pin._

 

 _This kid could totally kick my ass,_ I think, but am shaken from my thoughts as Marco walks past me toward the racks of balls lining the walls. He shoots me a look over his shoulder, eyes slightly squinted with a smile on his lips that makes me grin right back and hurry to catch up with him.

 

Marco picks up a red ball and feels it in his grip. “How do you know what one’s good?” he asks me while I’m intensely looking through the racks for the perfect ball. “I can’t tell what one I should take.”

 

I stand from my squatting position and look over at the ball he’s cradling in his arms like a baby. The number on the top reads ‘6’ and I laugh loudly.

 

“Probably a ball with more weight than that,” I decide, then grab one off the rack to prove a point – a point which was instantly made into a joke due to the fact that the weight on the top reads ’15.’ My arm falls limp and I struggle to keep my fingers in the holding slots. “Oh-Jesus-Fuck.”

 

Marco laughs at my expense and puts his own ball back on the rack, and I follow suit. We eventually find ones that aren’t too light or heavy and make our way back to the lane.

 

“Okay, so how do we start?” Marco asks, leaning down to get a better look at the little computer screen with empty slots where our names should be.

 

“Well, we have to type in our names and it sets it all up for us,” I tell him, pressing the select button and moving to where it says ‘Bowler 1.’ As I start to type in Marco’s name, I get an idea.

 

“Marco, turn around and don’t look what I’m typing.”

 

“Oh, God. Do I _want_ to know?”

 

I wave my hand at him, brushing him off. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

 

Then I take the liberty to type in both Marco’s name and my name, which are a far cry from our real names. I grin proudly anyway, and once all our information is filled in, I press the bowl button. Only the first initials of the names I've chosen for us show up next to our frames, which only infuriates Marco when he turns back around to see it.

 

“You’re ‘L’ and I’m ‘N’,” I say, pointing at the little initials next to the first blue, open frame on the screen. He shoots me a look and I laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll see what I wrote you in as if you get a strike or a spare.”

 

“In that case, I'm _never_ going to know what you typed for me,” he sighs quietly. “I don’t think you’re aware of how bad I actually am at this game.”

 

I sit down in one of the swivel chairs at the table and lean back. “So show me.”

 

Marco bites down on his lower lip, then starts toward the wood floor. He picks up the orange ball slowly, careful as he sets his fingers in the hold, then stands in front of the lane. He brings his wrist back, fueled by the momentum of the ball’s weight, and flings it all at once in the direction of the lane. I fight to hold back laughter burning in the pit of my stomach as he kicks a leg up behind him and throws the ball straight into the gutter.

 

With a heavy heart, Marco slumps toward where I sit and huffs loudly, plopping down in the chair across from me.

 

“Well,” I offer, “at least there’s room for improvement.”

 

He throws both hands up in the air and grumbles. “I’m awful!”

 

“You weren’t _awful,_ ” I say, even if it isn’t the complete truth. I don’t want to hurt his feelings though. “You can do this Marco! You got this.” I pause. “Maybe try and aim for the middle this time.”

 

He stands again, grabs the ball as it pops out of the little shoot, and mumbles something about how he had shot for the middle _last_ time as he approaches the lane yet again. I see his shoulders draw back as he takes a deep breath, raises the ball with both hands, and does another grotesque fling-y gesture by kicking one leg up behind him and chucking the ball as fast as he can down the lane.

 

Another gutter ball.

 

“I want to see you try,” Marco says as he returns to the table, “oh wise, all-knowing bowling prophet.”

 

“I’m not that great,” I say.

 

“Mmhmm, sure.” Marco rolls his eyes and huffs, blowing a few strands of his dark brown hair out of his eyes. “Put me out of my misery already!”

 

I laugh, standing, and walk down the steps to the main floor. Grabbing the ball, I weigh it once in each hand before putting my fingers in the hold, grip it tightly, then start for the lane. My arm goes back and my right leg swings behind my left as it leaves my fingertips, rolling down the lane until crashing into the first and second pin, knocking down all but one.

 

When I turn around, it’s nonchalant, but when I see the expression on Marco’s face I stumble a little. He’s wide-eyed and impressed, and it makes me falter in my steps. “Quit looking at me like that,” I call, to which he just shakes his head and smiles.

 

“You’re amazing,” he says. His voice is genuine.

 

“U-Uh, well,” I stutter, turning immediately back around so he can’t see the embarrassed look on my face, “I used to be on a bowling league when I was younger. Don’t think I’m anything special.”

 

I line up my shot again and toss the ball, knocking out the remaining pin and earning a spare.

 

“Oh, Marco!” I shout, ignoring his astonished look. “Look at the screen! The name is going to pop up.”

 

Marco shifts his gaze to the little screen where the name ‘Nightbeast’ flashes in big white letters, along with a solid white diagonal line signifying that I just kicked hella bowling pin ass. He snorts when he sees it. “’Nightbeast’? You are seriously the hugest dork of all time.”

 

“You’re the bigger dork,” I retort. “Just wait until you see what I put for you.”

 

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says, his tone a little sad. “I don’t think I’m ever going to knock down all those pins.”

 

“Of course you are! I’m going to help you.” I motion for him to meet me at the steps, leaning against the back of the monitor with one elbow. “Come over here,” I say after a moment of him just staring blankly at me, clearly not believing me. “It’s not as hard as it looks, I swear.”

 

“You looked like a champion bowler compared to what nonexistent skills I have,” he laughs, standing nonetheless. Soon he’s standing beside me, ball in hand, and looks down at me expectantly.

 

As I look back up at him, my eyes catch those of the woman sitting behind the bar just past our lane; she has a Styrofoam cup in one hand, the straw perched between her lips, and her other hand is occupied with her cellphone. Her eyes, however, are fixed on Marco and me, and she seems to smile. Even through the dim lighting of the bowling alley, I can tell.

 

I clear my throat, averting my gaze. “So,” I start again, guiding him toward the lane, “you’re just going to bring you arm back, focus your gaze on the center pin, and make sure you keep your arm straight.”

 

“Okay: bring arm back, focus, straighten it out. Got it.”

 

Except Marco clearly doesn’t get it, because as he brings his arm back, I watch him throw the ball diagonally and straight at the gutter all over again.

 

He sighs, itching his temple with a shy laugh. “I’m a mess.”

 

“Don’t sweat it,” I smile, going to get the ball for him as the pin holder resets itself and the ball returns to the holding unit. “Here, take this.” I offer the orange ball to him. Reluctantly, he takes it again, holding onto it tightly as he lets it fall to his side.

 

“Now,” I continue, stiffening, “stand up straight.” He does. “Bring the ball up to your chest.” He lifts it. “And then…”

 

I trail off because I can tell what I need to do, but I don’t know if I want to, if I should, if Marco would care if I did, or if it will only make things more complicated. Not complicated in the way that teaching Marco how to bowl is complicated, but in that I’m worried my heart will start doing these weird double-bass beats that reverberate throughout my entire body, down my arms, up my spine, in my teeth, in my mind. I don’t want the shift to happen.

 

But I do it anyway. And I can feel something change – monumentally so.

 

Because now I’m not just noticing it. Now, I’m putting two and two together.

 

My hand finds the small of his back and I lean in toward him. I can hear his breathing so close to my ear. I can smell the cinnamon scent that always seems to linger in his clothes – the same smell that had rubbed off on my own clothes when I let Marco do my laundry.

 

It takes me a moment to catch my breath and stifle the strangeness swirling in my chest like some weird gay vortex and I shake my head lightly to clear my thoughts. _You’re doing that thing again!_ _That thing where you’re hyper-aware of everything about Marco and he’s your friend and you shouldn’t feel this way when you think about him! STOP IT!_

 

“Pull your arm back,” I say, voice shaky as my hand moves to steady his waist while the other grabs hold of his forearm and raises it gently.

 

Marco’s breathing has slowed, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to focus, or if it’s something else entirely. But it probably isn’t anything. It couldn’t be.

 

“Then keep your eyes on the middle pin.” My words grow quieter as my chin rests against the backside of his shoulder. “And swing forward.”

 

Marco waits just a moment longer, maybe a little distracted or creeped out by the fact that my hands are still casually resting on him. But when he does, and he brings the ball forward and down the lane, the both of us watch in awe as it stays aligned with the center pin – creeping and creeping closer until its contact starts a chain reaction, knocking down every other pin in the entire formation.

 

“Oh my God!” Marco laughs, both hands digging themselves in the thick brown hair atop his head and grabbing tufts in disbelief. I reach up for a high five which he eagerly returns, shouting, “I can’t believe it. You’re amazing, Jean!”

 

I laugh right along with him until it hits me. “Shit, Marco! The screen!” Both of us rush to look at the screen which shows a diagonal line and flashes his bowling name.

 

Marco looks at me, and I look at him, and with the straightest face I’ve ever seen, he says: “‘Lil Freckles’?”

 

Ahh, yes. Lil Freckles. I crack myself up.

 

“I’m not so little, y'know.” Marco leans an arm on my shoulder as though to make his point. “If anything, I’m more like ‘Tall-Dorky-Awkward Freckles.’”

 

I speak before I have time to think. “More like Super-Handsome-Dapper Freckles.”

 

Marco looks like he’s choking; his eyes go wide and he averts his eyes from mine, finding the ground and bringing the back of his wrist to his mouth.

 

“Oh, God, you okay dude?” I say, bringing my hand up to his shoulder blades and rubbing gently.

 

He nods quickly, then smiles, coughs, and says, “Just swallowed wrong, I think.”

 

I shake my head at him because _what a huge dork_ , and then move to take my turn. Marco and I go back and forth like this, me bowling alone and then instructing him how to do a little better until he figures out how to do it good enough on his own without my help… But there’s a little part of me that wishes he never figured it out, because now I don’t have an excuse to-

 

_JEAN. Not again. Stop._

 

Over halfway through our game, I announce that I’m going to get us something to drink and that he should just bowl for me if I take too long.

 

“You sure?” Marco asks – but I can tell he’s enjoying himself and he’s really just asking to be nice.

 

“Of course,” I reply, walking back off toward the bar behind our lane. “Be right back.”

 

I shuffle my feet through the doorway into the bar-lounge that smells like smoke and dust. The lady behind the counter makes eye contact with me for the second time today and I feel a sudden nervousness. _She’s probably just some old creeper,_ I think mildly.

 

“What can I get for you, honey?” she asks. Her voice is a little raspy but she seems nice enough – even though I don’t like being called honey. Or sweetie. Or any cutesy little thing like that. The multitude of pet names suddenly swirling in my head makes a shiver creep up my spine. _Yuck._

 

“Two Cokes,” I say firmly, fishing my wallet out of my pocket and grabbing a couple bucks out of the fold.

 

She starts to pouring the drinks before ringing me up. She sets two Coca-Colas on the counter in front of me and punches a few things into the manual cash register in front of her. “Alright, that’s gonna be $1.50.” I squint my eyes at her a second before setting two dollars on the counter between us.

 

“I got two drinks,” I say, checking the price overhead again – just making sure she wasn’t senile and forgot to ring up two drinks. In any case, I pick both up and glance once through the doorway at Marco, still bowling his heart out and cheering alone as he manages to hit four pins.

 

The lady smiles. “I know. The second one’s on the house for your boyfriend.”

 

Her sudden assumption catches me off-guard and I nearly spill the Coke all over the place. My mouth opens and I’m about to tell her she’s wrong, quickly clearing up the fact that _Marco and I are not dating_ and she needs to ring me up for the second drink because I’m not going to let her sit there and think she’s got it all figured out when she doesn’t.

 

But then I close my mouth, gulp, and nod at her once before ducking out in a fit of embarrassment. Why would she think that? Why does _everyone_ – Eren, Reiner, Bertholdt, even _this_ random ass lady – think I like Marco?

 

 _Well, Jean,_ I think to myself bitterly, _maybe you do._

 

I almost stumble again as the words flutter through my mind.

 

 _Better yet,_ I wonder in an almost agressive way as I approach the table, _why didn’t you correct her? Why did you just let her continue thinking that you and Marco are a couple? I mean, what a stupid thought. You and Marco. A couple. Like, going on fucking dates and shit. Really, why couldn’t you just say that he wasn’t your boyfriend? What the actual fuck was so hard about that?_

 

I scowl... I don’t want to start thinking about this shit, because it makes me feel guilty when I set our cups down and see Marco bowling, laughing at himself and acting like the biggest dork ever. Well, _second_ -biggest dork, only after me since I’m the one who brought him to this weird old bowling alley in the first place. _I don't want to feel guilty._

 

Before Marco notices I’ve come back, I quickly make my way toward the bathrooms. _You need to get your shit together, Kirschtein._ But as I begin to approach the restroom, something catches my eye. Something big and neon and glowing. Why hadn’t I seen it before?

 

A jukebox, in all its amazing retro glory.

 

I grab a couple quarters from my wallet and pop them in the machine with two quiet dings. Then, I begin the process of looking through the albums, flicking through each and every song choice until I find the single one that’s just perfect. _It’s his fucking song,_ I think with a soft smile.

 

Finding the jukebox clears my head enough, so I resist the still-present urge to pop in the restroom and stick my whole head under the cold faucet.

 

The first song starts to play just as soon as I reach the table again. Marco is on his last frame, already finishing mine with more than a handful of gutter balls.

 

“This is the last frame, Marco!” I call, just as he’s about to take his shot. “You got this!”

 

He whips around to look at me, and just as he does, the jukebox clicks on. The overhead speakers which had once played D-grade pop songs were now filled with the steady tempo of a guitar riff, complete with duo tones and interwoven cymbals keeping time.

 

“Jean!” Marco exclaims, raising a finger and pointing it up to the speaker. “Listen what song is playing!”

 

I bust out laughing. “I know! I picked it!” I motion to the jukebox and the realization hits him.

 

And as the chorus starts, he spins around and steadies his shoulders, fueled by the fact that _this is his song._ And with one well-positioned throw, the ball clashes with the front and center pin – knocking them all down in one go.

 

Marco whips around, eyes wide. “Wahhhhh!” he yells, then runs up the steps where I’m standing and picks me up in both arms, spins me around once, and sets me down.

 

I barely have time to recognize what just happened before Marco’s already staring wildly at the screen, pointing at his name with a giant ‘X’ below it, flashing boldly against the vibrant blue background.

 

“I don’t believe it,” Marco says in a hushed tone, the smile still glued to his lips.

 

There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow, so I sit down and take a gulp from the Coca-Cola on the table. _I don’t believe this, either,_ I think, trying to will away the blush creeping up my neck. _I don’t believe that out of all people, out of any single one fucking person on campus, I had to be the one to develop complicated feelings toward my goddamn roommate._

 

Marco starts singing “You Make My Dreams Come True” and I stifle my shame with my head in my hands.

* * *

We end up playing another game before I tell Marco I’m bored, to which he (grudgingly) finishes our game and lets us leave. We look around town, grab a bite for lunch (on me), do some window shopping, swing by the park (where Marco makes instant friends with nearly every single dog being walked), then finally decide to head back to the dorms at a quarter to six.

 

I make sure it’s alright with Marco that we head back now, because I have a feeling that the subway is going to be ridiculously crowded at this time – especially on a Saturday – but he tells me he’s tired and feels like laying around, watching Too Cute or some other bullshit I’ll probably end up liking but never admitting I do.

 

We make our way down the steps where I find the machines, buy another pass for each of us to get back to the dorms with, then hand it to Marco. He follows me through the gate and we take our place on the platform, waiting a few minutes for the subway.

 

“Hear it?” I ask him, tilting one ear up as if to hear better.

 

“Yeah,” he says, and a few moments later, the subway roars by, loud and mechanic and piercing as steel-against-steel clangs. The cars come to a halt and I give Marco a quick look before starting toward the doors.

 

Immediately, I’m wishing I would have been more forceful with Marco; I should have told him we needed to wait at least another hour. The subway is _packed_ ; there are old women standing, children standing, and the seats are mainly occupied by large guys in four-piece suits with briefcases, too lazy to stand and let the others sit. Or maybe there’s just no _room_ for them to get up and stand. I quickly glance over at the car next to ours and realize it’s the same situation; everyone is on their way home from work at this time and it’s a wonder we can even find enough room to breathe.

 

“Oh, wow,” Marco laughs nervously, “you weren’t kidding.”

 

“Sorry,” I apologize, but I don’t look at him. Instead, my eyes scan the crowd for a place to stand, somewhere better than smashed up against the pole in the dead-center of the aisle. There’s not really anyplace for us to hold on to, so just before the subway takes off, and I find a little spot for us to stand, I act instinctively.

 

My hand finds Marco’s sleeve and I shout a hasty “come on” before pulling him toward the end of the aisle. We squeeze thinly past families, businessmen, punk ass kids and everyone in between until we cramp ourselves in the space between the emergency exit door and the aisle.

 

I let go of his sleeve and breathe in deeply. “Itty-bitty living space,” I laugh, and so does he.

 

With a jolt, the subway takes off. We watch as the passengers with nowhere to put their hands jostle in the aisle, swaying unintentionally as they attempt to find a hand hold and steady themselves. A few people bump into us, one large man in particular colliding with my head.

 

“Ouch,” I grumble, raising a hand to rub at my forehead. He mutters a weak “sorry” and turns around, but _god damn, that fucking hurt._

 

Marco looks over at me, his eyes pinned to the place where my wrist rubs my injured temple. I try to laugh off the surging pain but wince anyway.

 

Suddenly, I see an arm reaching out, caging me in to the small space where we stand. My eyes follow the arm upward, from the palm laid flat against the wall to the body it belongs to. It’s Marco.

 

_He’s… protecting me._

 

His eyes survey the throng of people swaying in the subway, a strong look suddenly taking hold of his features. It makes me double back – or, I would if I had any room to do so, anyway. My eyes widen a little as he keeps his arm firm, and after a moment, as the train slows and the crowd starts to jostle yet again, I see the muscles in his arm tighten.

 

We're so close.

 

I keep my eyes focused on his face, staring hard at the freckles dotting along his nose and cheeks, and realize I remember where the larger ones are. I look even closer, leaning forward just a little, and remember the exact places where they start to fade. It dawns on me that I’m beginning to memorize these little things about him – something even as small as his freckles.

 

But it’s the memorization that scares me because I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to know someone this well.  _Ever._

 

The train slows and a few more people get off. I look away as Marco’s arm falls back to his side. I cough into my fist.

 

 _You’re hopeless,_ I think sadly.

 

Marco smiles at me just like he always does, and I return it less-brightly the way I usually do, but the only thing different now is the friction between us, clinging to our clothes like static electricity. I can’t tell if I’m the only one who feels it, or if Marco can too.

 

But he takes a step away from where I stand and doesn’t put his arm back up beside me – and I fleetingly wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to get shocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 10,000 words. *slow clap* Congrats on making it to the end. You should be given a medallion for your valiant efforts. Or, like, a cookie maybe. 
> 
> Idk, something.


	9. friend like you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give a huge shout-out to everyone reading, but as well as a few people who have even drawn fanart for us! Seriously, we both were practically crying as we saw it! I've sent messages out to a few people on tumblr, thanking them when I saw that they had drawn or were planning to draw some things or even anyone that I've seen mention our story, but I wanted to thank you again! It means a great deal to us both. <3
> 
> I hope this chapter makes up for any of the sadness I had to write last time, haha!

“Hi, Mom.”

 

“Hi, sweetie!” Mom’s voice says. She sounds happier than she did a few days ago when she’d called crying, and I feel relived to hear her normal tone again. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

 

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too,” I tell her with a light laugh, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I take a pen and paper out from my notebook. “How are you? How’s Angelo?”

 

“We’re both fine,” she replies softly. “I’m at the hospital with him right now. I’m about to give him a haircut because if he were to wake up right now, I wouldn’t even know it! It’s grown so much in the past couple of months.”

 

I frown, using my pencil to make a few small doodles on the paper in front of me if only for something to do. “Make sure that it looks nice, okay?” I say, trying to get rid of that horrible feeling in my gut. “He would hate to wake up with a shaved head or bowl cut.”

 

Mom laughs now and I imagine her sitting with him in the hospital, her dark hair pulled up. She’s probably dressed in normal jeans and a sweater, because it’s chilly out, but it’s hard to remember her normal clothes as much now. She’s always wearing her work clothes.

 

“So how are you?” Mom asks now, her voice light and sounding more happy than I’d heard in a while. “And how is Jean?”

 

“We’re both doing good,” I tell her, smiling to myself.

 

Usually, when Mom and I talk on the phone, I download everything to her. I’ve told her all about Jean (though I haven’t exactly told that about my crush on him) and how we’re best friends. I’ve told her how he’s incredibly important to me now, and that we know each other really well and that I’ve even told him about Angelo (I leave out having the panic attack, because I don’t need to worry her and I’m okay, really). I’ve also told her about work and Armin and Zoe (sort of crazy but still very nice) and Sasha and Connie.

 

“So, Mom, I had a question,” I start and I stop myself because now I’m doodling a picture of Jean’s face and it looks horrendous due to my lack of artistic skill. I scribble it out immediately. “Well, we don’t have an oven in our dorm so I can’t quite make a turkey. But I was wondering, you know that banana pudding pie that you make every year?”

 

“Did you want me to tell you how to make it?” she asks with a soft laugh.

 

“Please.”

 

She tells me all the things I’ll need to make it and then step-by-step on how to make it. She asks if I’m making it for my roommates, and I tell her that I am. But mostly, I’m making it to surprise Jean.

 

After class last night, Armin and I hung out at the café even though we didn’t have to work, and we studied together. It turns out, both of us have been feeling really nervous for the exam in that class in particular, so we made notecards and quizzed each other for an hour or so. While we were doing that, Armin and I talked and I finally got around to apologizing for the way Jean acted at Eren’s party that he invited me to.

 

While we were on the topic of Jean, Armin let on that he was kind of a holiday Grinch – for _every_ holiday. When I asked why, he’d told me that Jean just never really had a lot of people around.

 

Hearing this made me feel sad, because Jean deserves a good holiday. While I don’t have the time or money to take him back to my house to show him a good Thanksgiving like I’m used to, I _do_ have a killer banana pudding pie recipe that I can make and surprise him with.

 

“Okay, I’m going to head to the store and pick up everything I need,” I tell her, taking the phone into my hand once I finish writing everything down. “Thanks, Mom.”

 

“No problem, call me if you get confused!” she replies. “I love you, Marco. Happy Thanksgiving.”

 

“Love you, too,” I say and then we hang up.

 

I fold the piece of paper neatly and slide it into my pocket. Grabbing a jacket by the door and shrugging it on over my t-shirt, I head out of the dorm and make sure to lock the door as I do so. The elevator ride is quick, and from there, it’s only a ten minute walk across campus to the nearest store.

 

The walk is nice, even though it is starting to get really cold outside lately. I pull the jacket closer and put my hands in my pockets to keep warm. With December only a week away, and finals only two, I’m sure it’s only a matter of days until it starts snowing. I don’t mind too much, though, because I’ve always loved winter.

 

I reach the store in about fifteen minutes. When I step inside, it’s warm and I breathe a sigh of relief as I feel my skin starting to warm up again. I grab a basket and pick up all the ingredients that I need for the banana pudding pie before heading for the check-out.

 

The cashier tells me my total and I pay him with a twenty, putting the change into my pocket and grabbing the paper bag with everything I need. I smile in thanks and head out, back to the cold, to return to the dorm. Glancing at my phone, I see that it’s almost 2 o’clock now – Jean’s only going to be out for another two hours or so, which means I have until about 4 until he’s walking into the dorm. He’d left around noon saying that he had some errands to run. I set a quicker pace on the walk back, because Mom said the pie needs to chill for at least an hour before serving or everything will completely fall apart.

 

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out, glancing at the screen. When Jean’s name flashes across with a text, I can’t help the smile and light blush.

 

**From: Jean**

**Kill me now I hate waiting in line ugh**

 

I roll my eyes as I type out a reply: **Don’t be such a drama queen! (-;**

 

I slide my phone back into my pocket, feeling a new surge of energy from my nerves as I head into the building. Anything involving Jean sets me off – my nerves are so touchy lately. A simple text, a phone call when I’m away visiting home, and something as small as a light touch sends my stomach reeling with butterflies. It’s the classic case of a crush – unfortunately, because it’s been a long time since I’ve had one and I’d forgotten how painful they can be.

 

Now I sigh as I wait for the elevator to get to the fourth floor. A one-sided crush never ends well, especially with friendship involved. I tell myself not to let it get to me, because as long as Jean doesn’t find out and get weirded out, then we shouldn’t have a problem. _Maybe it’ll go away soon,_ I tell myself weakly, but just then the vibration in my pocket reminds me that it will never happen.

 

It looks like I’m in it for the long haul.

 

**From: Jean**

**Excuse u??? Did u mean drama KING???**

 

I unlock the dorm and step inside, shaking my head at the text. I type a quick reply of, **Oh, sorry! My bad. Drama king, indeed.** Then, I set the bag down on the table we use for dinner and hang up the jacket. I roll the sleeves of my shirt up and unload everything, smoothing out the instructions Mom gave me so I can read them as I get everything ready.

 

Just as I’m about to start, I spot an apron hanging up. It’s white with frillies along the edge and a pocket over the heart, which is actually heart-shaped and pink. I put it on, tying it around my waist.

 

“Who’s even is this?” I wonder aloud to myself, letting my fingers trail along the frillies with a light laugh. I lift the fabric to my nose and sniff, trying to see if I can figure out who the owner is by the smell on it.

 

 _Hmm…_ I glance at the blanket draped over the couch in the main part of the dorm by the TV. _It smells… strangely familiar._

 

I shrug it off and get to work, because I don’t have much time. With all the ingredients spread out in front of me, I start mixing them together in a bowl just as Mom told me to. I cut the bananas up into perfect slices, making sure that they are all even, and then mix them in, as well.

 

It only takes about 25 minutes to make the pudding pie. I put it into the mini-fridge that Reiner and Bertholdt have, knowing they won’t mind, so it can chill. Then, I wash my hands and clean up the table of my mess, making sure to put Mom’s instructions in my desk drawer for safe keeping.

 

I sit around watching an episode of Too Cute: Kittens while I wait for Jean to return.

 

At 3:55, I make sure to take the pie out of the fridge and set it out on the table. I stand there excitedly, waiting for him to walk through the door and see the surprise. It might not be a big Thanksgiving feast, but it’s still something.

 

The door knob jiggles before it opens and I bit my lip to keep the dumb smile from showing on my face. Jean steps in and takes his shoes off and shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto the shelves where we generally keep our food.

 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Jean!” I shout, startling him. He falls backwards and trips over his shoes, landing heavily against the wall. His eyes are huge as he looks at me, like he could attack at any moment.

 

“HOLY SHIT, MARCO!” he shouts, his hand running through his hair as he calms down a little. “You fucking scared the _shit_ out of me!”

 

I laugh as he regains his composure. He sighs and shakes his head before approaching me at the table. His hazel eyes land on the banana pudding pie and he looks up at me.

 

“What’s this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“It’s banana pudding pie!” I reply excitedly. “We make it every Thanksgiving at my house. And since we can’t really have turkey and stuffing and all that, I figured that I could at the very least make you this.”

 

Jean’s expression softens and he smiles as he looks back down at the pie. His cheeks turn a slight pink color as he pulls out a chair to sit down. I quickly grab a plate for him and a fork, so he can taste it. I can’t help but keep thinking that maybe, just maybe, this pie will be what he thinks of when he thinks about Thanksgiving from now on.

 

He takes a bite and practically moans. “Oh my god, Marco,” he says as he goes in for another bite. “This is fucking awesome! I didn’t know you could cook!”

 

“Actually, it’s no-bake!” I reply, getting a fork and taking a bite for myself.

 

Jean stops and his eyes are serious as he looks me over. Feeling self-conscious, I put my hands on my hips and try to look intimidating so he’ll stop looking at me so weirdly.

 

“Where did you get that apron?” Jean asks, his voice low.

 

“What?”

 

“The apron,” he says again, a little louder. “Where… where did you get that?”

 

“Oh, it was just hanging up over there—“

 

“Oh god, Marco!” Jean says and he gets up quickly, the chair sliding backwards making a loud sound across the floor. “Take it off, hurry! It could have diseases or something!”

 

“WHAT?”

 

I’m genuinely scared now and I allow him to yank it up over my head and untie it from around my waist. He then proceeds to throw it across the room, shuddering, and then wipe my clothes off for me a little.

 

“God, Marco, I’m sorry,” he says as he dusts off my shirt. “That’s Reiner’s.”

 

“So?” My eyebrows knit together in confusion as I try to figure out why that would mean the apron (Reiner wears an apron with frillies?) would have diseases on it.

 

“It’s his… _sexy time apron, Marco!_ ” Jean whispers hotly, looking around as if someone would over hear him.

 

Suddenly, it clicks. I glance warily back at the blanket that’s on the couch that Jean always complains smells like semen and then I glance at the bundled up apron laying on the floor.

 

“Oh my god,” is all I can manage.

 

Jean takes one look at my expression before he snorts and starts to laugh. I watch as his face turns red and he covers his mouth, laughing really, really hard about my unfortunate luck. But his laughing is contagious and within a few moments, I start to laugh, too.

 

“I can’t believe,” I wheeze out after our laughing finally starts to die down, “that Reiner has an apron with frillies.”

 

“He told me about it,” Jean sputters, wiping tears from his eyes. His cheeks are red and blotchy; at one point, he even started crying from laughing so hard. “He said he bought it to spice up his sex life.”

 

“Oh, god,” I say. “They need to spice it up? They do it like four times a week!”

 

“Maybe it worked.”

 

We exchange a look before our eyes find the wadded up apron that Jean had thrown just minutes earlier. Then, we both shrug.

 

“Hey, Marco?” Jean says and I look at him again, our eyes meeting. His cheeks are still slightly pink, and he smiles at me a little nervously, the corners of his mouth slightly up-turned. He brings one of his hands to the back of his neck and scratches there for a moment, which is what he always does when he feels sort of uncomfortable or awkward.

 

“Yeah, Jean?”

 

“Thanks,” he finally says, breaking our eye contact for a moment. “I mean, for the pie. It’s better than any turkey and stuffing that I can remember.”

 

“Really?”

 

My heart starts to race and I have to look away now, feeling a blush coming on. Sometimes, I really hate the way my body betrays me like that, always turning red at the slightest words of appreciation from him.

 

“I’m glad,” I tell him honestly, smiling happily down at the floor. “Happy Thanksgiving, Jean.”

 

Our eyes meet again, and he smiles, too.

 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Marco."

* * *

_Crunch. Crunch. Smack. Crunch._

 

“God, Sasha, can you chew any louder?”

 

Sasha’s eyes go wide at this and she smacks Connie up-side the head, somehow complying with his (sarcastic) words and she opens her mouth and chews loudly. She’s sitting on a stool by the machines with a bag of potato chips in her hands that, twenty minutes earlier, had been brand new. Now, they’re almost completely gone.

 

“Next time, I’m bringing you something more quiet to eat,” Connie complains, rubbing his head and giving her a dirty look. “Like applesauce.”

 

“Eww!” Sasha shouts, spitting a little, which only seems to irritate Connie more. “I wouldn’t eat that even if you did bring it. Besides, if you did, I would just go to the vending machine and get chips or something. Or we have plenty of muffins to eat here.”

 

“Then eat those! It’s more quiet than your constant crunching.”

 

I lean against the far counter, watching the two of them bicker. Whenever I work with Sasha it’s like this. Connie always shows up, without fail, and she always finds _something_ to eat (though this time it was because Connie brought her food). It’s not all bad, though, because at least they’re entertaining during the slow times.

 

Which lately, is all the time.

 

Somehow, I thought we would be busier since finals are coming up and people are cramming for them. I sigh, leaning heavily against the counter. The entire café is dead and all the food places are getting ready to close down shop.

 

“Oh, look!” Sasha says, suddenly crashing right into me. I stumble and catch myself, a little startled from her slamming into me. “Marco, look! It’s um, what was his name? That guy you always talk about!”

 

“Jean?” I say, and I can’t help but notice the excited tone my voice holds. I stand up straighter and look around, spotting him as he steps in through the doors, holding his jacket close to himself.

 

“Yeah, Jean!” she repeats, nodding. She waves her hands in the air until he notices her and he raises an eyebrow in our direction. “Hey, Jean! Remember me? We met at that party where you _totally_ punched Eren in the face!”

 

Jean’s expression falters a little as he steps up to the café. His eyes look from me to her and then back to me, his thin lips set straight. He’s scowling again.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sasha, right?”

 

“Right-o!” she exclaims. “And you remember Connie, too, right?” She grabs Connie by the collar of his shirt and yanks him around so he’s standing on the same side of the counter that we’re all standing at. “Connie, remember Jean?”

 

“For the love of god, Sasha, yes, I remember him!” Connie says, pushing Sasha’s greasy hands off his shirt. “You just spit potato chip saliva all over me.”

 

“Sorry!” she says, laughing now.

 

As Sasha and Connie start up another bickering argument, I turn to face Jean again. It’s the first time he’s visited me at work, so I’m sort of nervous. What if I mess something up and he sees?

 

“So, what brings you here?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow as he pulls out a stack of notecards and sets them on the counter between us.

 

“I know you’ve been really stressing lately,” he replies, “and I had some free time. So I thought I would help you study while you worked.”

 

I’m honestly really surprised. Usually, Jean is the one to help me loosen up by taking me out and playing stupid games or watching dumb TV shows on Netflix. My chest feels light and airy, and I can’t help the smile that finds itself on my lips as I look at my notecards. _He’s such a great guy,_ I think to myself as I take the notecards and pull the rubber band off of them. _He’s too good of a guy._

 

I open my mouth to say something when a guy approaches the counter. I hold up my finger and say, “Be right back,” before going to the register.

 

“Hi,” I say enthusiastically with a smile, “what can I get for you?”

 

“Uh, lemme get a large coffee with French Vanilla creamer.”

 

“Sure,” I reply as I punch the buttons in for his order. “Anything else?”

 

I hear the machines behind me hiss as Sasha makes the coffee. The guy in front of me shakes his head no and pulls out his wallet as I tell him his total. I give him his change just as Sasha is putting a lid on the coffee and she hands it to him with a smile.

 

“Have a nice night!” Sasha, Connie and I all shout to him in unison as he walks away, sipping at his coffee.

 

Then, Sasha and I laugh as we look at Connie who only shrugs. “I basically work here,” he replies. “I could probably close the place down if I wanted to.”

 

“Wanna do it for me later then?” Sasha asks, giving him this really cute look where she looks up at him through her long eyelashes and blinks a few times, pouting her lips.

 

“Hell no,” Connie shouts with a snort. “Stop making that face, Sasha. You look like you have stomach problems.”

 

She pouts again, this time more seriously, and puts her hands on her hips.

 

“Marco, I don’t look like I have stomach problems, do I?” she demands, turning to me with her pout. I put my hands up in surrender and shake my head quickly.

 

“N-no, of course not!” I tell her honestly.

 

“See? Why can’t you be nice like Marco over here?” Sasha complains to Connie, flicking him on the forehead. “Just get over yourself and admit that you are in love with me, jeesh.”

 

Connie’s whole face and head turn red and he opens his mouth to reply but closes it quickly. I take my chance and start to back away from them to return to the counter where Jean is standing, watching from afar.

 

“Sorry about them,” I tell him quietly as they start another argument. “They’re… a handful sometimes, but they’re very nice.”

 

Jean nods a little and his eyes move from Connie who is prying Sasha’s hands away from his neck as she somehow crawled across the counter and started trying to strangle him, and back to me.

 

“So…” Jean says a bit awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You wanna study?”

 

I brighten up and nod. “Yeah! Thanks, Jean.”

 

He gives me a half-smile before mixing up the notecards and picking out a random one. He struggles to read the words in front of him, squinting and holding it out kind of far then pulling it up closer as if that will help. His eyebrows are pulled together in deep concentration, with small lines in between. His lips move a little, trying to sound it out; I notice his tongue slip out between his front teeth for a second, then it’s back in his mouth and he looks at me with a frown.

 

“I can’t even fucking read these,” he says finally.

 

I laugh then, trying to get over how weird I’m being. “Just read the definitions then. I’ll guess the term you’re talking about.”

 

“That’s easier,” he huffs before flipping the card over to read the definition.

 

For the next hour or so, he quizzes me until we make it through the whole stack nearly twice. I get a few wrong, but I’m on my game from all the study sessions with Armin so I don’t get too embarrassed. My overall grade would easily be an A. And besides, Jean seems impressed enough when I say the really hard words out loud with ease.

 

“Marcoooooo!” Sasha chimes, waving her hands to me. I turn and look at her and she points at the clock indicating that it’s about time to close up for the night.

 

“I have to close now,” I tell Jean as we gather the notecards and bundle them together with the rubber band. “Will you wait for me? We can walk back together.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll wait for you,” he says. Connie approaches him and they both take a seat at a table nearby to wait for us. A minute later and I hear Connie laughing loudly and I glance over, wondering what Jean said that’s so funny. Because Jean isn’t that funny and I’m the one who usually laughs at his jokes…

 

“You guys are cute,” Sasha says, pulling me away from the weird feelings rising in my chest.

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“You and Jean,” she clarifies, as if that’s what I didn’t understand. I feel my cheeks heating up and I know I’m blushing, but I don’t want her to see. So I turn around and start wiping the machines down as we turn them off. “Aww! You’re so cute when you blush, Marco!”

 

I grab her hand and shush her quickly, chancing a glance at the table. Jean is looking at us over his shoulder, probably because he heard her practically shouting it.

 

“Please don’t say anything,” I whisper to her. “He doesn’t know and I don’t want to freak him out. I don’t think that… he’s into… guys. Me, specifically. We’re just friends.”

 

She looks at the boys and then back to me, clearly clueless. “Oh, really? I thought he liked you, too. He acts like an overprotective boyfriend. At the party, too, he was like that.”

 

I blink and straighten up. “N-no! We’re just friends. That’s it.”

 

 _But sometimes when I do his laundry, I pretend like I’m his boyfriend doing it for him,_ I think weakly and she nods and promises to keep quiet about it from now on. _I even surprise him with a homemade pudding pie. Not to mention I can’t even sleep in the same bed as the guy without getting aroused. I’m so pathetic._

 

Sasha and I quickly finish cleaning the little stand up and mop the area around before we call it quits and clock out and lock the registers.

 

“All done?” Jean asks as we approach the table they’re sitting at. Sasha and Connie wave as they head out together; Connie walks with his hands in the pocket of his Trost University hoodie and Sasha skips ahead, walking backwards to talk to him occasionally, laughing.

 

“Yeah,” I reply as he gets to his feet and puts his jacket back on, “let’s go home.”

 

We head out into the dark campus together, walking side by side. We match pace, both used to the speed the other walks, and we take our time. It’s cold outside and whenever we exhale, we can see our breath. But we take our time, anyway, because it’s nice to be alone to talk for a while. We already know that Reiner and Bertholdt are probably occupying the TV or are in Reiner’s room, so it’s harder to be alone in the dorm.

 

“So,” Jean says, drawing the ‘o’ sound out for a bit.

 

“So?” I encourage him to go on when he doesn’t at first.

 

“So,” he tries again, looking up at me. “Do you like that girl?”

 

“Who? Sasha?”

 

“Yeah,” he replies, turning to look ahead of us as we walk.

 

I feel my heart drop. Is he asking because he really thinks I do like Sasha, or is he asking because _he_ thought she was cute?

 

“No. Why?” I finally say, glancing at him from the side to gauge his expression. “D-do you?”

 

Jean looks at me now. We’re nearing the bridge but he stops, so I stop, too and turn to face him. His expression is a little surprised, but his cheeks and nose are both pink from the cold. He sniffles and I wonder for a moment if he’s getting a cold and has a runny nose.

 

“No,” he says and my heart finally can rest easy. I let out a sigh and then stop, hoping he didn’t notice. “I was just wondering what your type was. It’s, like, the only thing I _don’t_ know about you, man.”

 

I laugh a little, but I feel nervous now. My palms are sweaty even though it’s cold outside and I pull them out of my pockets to cool down. It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable telling Jean about this, it’s just… if he knows and he starts to notice that I like him, it could potentially ruin our entire friendship.

 

Even if I really like-like Jean, I also value his friendship more than anything. I can’t lose him.

 

“Well…” I trail off, biting my lip nervously. “I don’t really have a t-type.”

 

“Really?” Jean says, clearly confused and not understanding what I’m saying.

 

“Literally. Um, boys or girls.”

 

There. I watch as his expression changes, hearing this new information about me. My palms are sweating again so I just decide to put them back into my pockets because the cold wind against sweaty palms isn’t helping my nerves.

 

“O-oh.”

 

His word hangs heavy in the air between us. I look down and shuffle my foot against the pavement before I start walking again, my head down. He starts walking again, too, but our paces don’t quite match up.

 

As we reach the building, I finally decide to say one last thing.

 

“Look,” I say, spinning around suddenly and catching him off-guard. He runs right into me and stumbles back a bit; instinctively, I reach out and steady him by his shoulders. I quickly retract my hands and clear my throat. “It’s weird for you, I’m sure. I just wanted to be honest. I-I understand if…”

 

“Marco,” Jean says, “what the hell?”

 

“What?”

 

“Were you about to say you understand if I don’t want to be your friend anymore?” he says and he suddenly looks so angry with me. I blink a few times and struggle to keep up. “We’re best fucking friends, Marco. I don’t care what you’re into in terms of boys or girls, okay?”

 

“You were just so quiet and I was scared that maybe…” I bite my lip again because I can’t finish the sentence now that I know that’s not the case.

 

“Thanks for being honest with me,” he says now, meeting my eye. “I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you to say. Don’t worry, though. I’m not judging you.”

 

I smile and I can’t help it, I wrap my arms around him in a tight, warm hug and rest my chin on his shoulder. After a few moments, he raises his arms and pats me on the back, hugging me back. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, and trying to memorize the way his body feels pressed against mine in the cold weather. Then, I pull away and laugh, rubbing the back of my head and messing up my hair there.

 

“Thanks, Jean!” I tell him. “I’m glad that I told you.”

 

He smiles now, his cheeks pink again. “Me, too.”

 

We both head inside now and get into the elevator. We ride silently up to the fourth floor and head to our dorm, both just happy to be back inside where it’s warm. As expected, Reiner and Bertholdt are cuddling on the couch, watching _Thor_ on TV. They both greet us happily as we walk in.

 

“You wanna join us?” Reiner asks, lifting a bowl of popcorn to tempt us.

 

Jean and I exchange a glance before shrugging. “Sure,” I tell them. “Why not?”


	10. i wanna be yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Okay so I know you wanted to be cute and all with the chapter title... but I think we both know that a more accurate title would have been 'I Wanna Be On You.'"_ -[Katie](http://katiedegennaro.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Y'all... this is the longest chapter to date. I actually wrote, like, half of this within the span of two days, despite the fact that I've got websites I have to design and posters to make and all this crazy stuff to do for school. So basically I pushed my entire life to the side because I had such a strong urge to write this chapter. My priorities are clearly in check, haha.
> 
> Also I wanted to thank people for all the nice comments for the past few chapters. It's seriously mind-boggling that people like this story as much as we like writing it. So thank you so much!! ♡
> 
> Please continue to comment!! We love hearing your thoughts. (◡‿◡✿)
> 
>  **PS-** This chapter's a juicy one. Ohohoho~
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s one in the morning and I’m the only one still left in the living room. We have school in the morning, bright and early, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to leave the couch. My mind keeps wandering back to Marco’s words: _Boys or girls._ And I can’t help but feel this weird aching pain in the pit of my stomach like fingernails clawing at my bones as the words hang in my head like some sort of storm cloud.

 

Not that it’s bad that Marco likes dudes. In fact, I kind of wasn’t completely surprised; he’s such a caring guy that it only makes sense for him to be able to care for girls and boys in the same way. But the darkness that fills my head is tied to the fact that I only just realized I might like the guy, and now that there’s some sort of chance he could feel the same way…

 

 _Dude, he’s your friend. Your_ best _friend. You can’t ruin it with shit like this._

 

And I know I’m right. I don’t want to fuck everything up because I’m really good at that, and Marco deserves someone who won’t. Besides, I haven’t had many friends, so having Marco is special. I know I’m not a likeable guy. I say the wrong shit, I come off as a dick, I pretend I’m arrogant... but really I’m just worried people will think I’m worthless when they find out I can’t do anything right.

 

But Marco somehow got under my skin, and now I’m up watching some bullshit telethon on PBS to avoid him. Yeah, he’s probably sleeping already, curled up in his little bunk bed, and I know I should be doing the same – especially the week before finals – but I know I won’t be able to. My head is a mess.

 

I spiral downward into a pit of self-deprecating thoughts.

 

 _So you maybe have some weird feelings about your roommate…_ Gay-ish _feelings. But just because you found out he might be into guys, that doesn’t give you the automatic signal to act on it. Just because you happen to fit within his broad demographic of possible partners, that doesn’t mean you’re even on his radar. He probably thinks of you as just a friend – a best friend. And let’s be honest, he wouldn’t consider you ‘boyfriend-material’ because you so obviously aren’t._

 

With a sigh, I fall back onto the couch and mute the television. Pictures flash on the screen, smiling, dancing, answering telephones, talking into microphones, phony, phony, phony. Everything feels so put-on when you spend nights alone, beating yourself up internally about how much of an idiot you are to think the guy you like might _actually_ feel the same way.

 

I can’t take it anymore. After a few minutes of silence, I flick the TV off and roll over, wrapping myself up in the blanket curled around me and shut my eyes tight.

 

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. I keep repeating the same movements in anguish as thoughts keep swimming in my head – thoughts that had never seemed as real as they do now. Maybe they’re more of dreams, since I’m verging on sleep.

 

Marco’s hand in mine. We’re sitting on a hill somewhere, and there’s a great, vast field below. I lean my head on his shoulder, and even though it’s just a dream, I feel nervous. But then I feel his thumb rubbing along the back of my hand, and even though it’s something so small, a wave of calm rushes over me.

 

It’s the way his chest rises and falls against my back that's so vivid I can’t tear myself away from the dream. It’s the sense of protection that I have when I feel his breath at my neck.

 

And then it all changes; the scene is different, and our bodies are different, but his hand is still in mine. The room we’re in is dim, and the bed we’re on is stiff, but Marco’s warmth is still the same. His hands are at my jawline, pulling my face toward his until…

 

I wake up suddenly, a cold sweat raking over me. That guilty feeling is heavy in my chest, weighing me down even further with every breath I take. The time on the clock across the room reads _3:15._

 

My hands run through my hair. _Why is this happening all of the sudden? Why do you have to dream up these shitty fantasies, only to feel guilty afterward? You take advantage of the fact he’s your friend. Don’t push it._

 

So, with a deep breath, I stand up from the couch and stumble into the bedroom, climb up into my own bunk bed, and fall asleep before I can do any more thinking.

* * *

Monday night, I am unable to sleep again – but this time, it’s for a whole different reason entirely. This time, it’s because the sound of Reiner and Bertholdt doing the do permeates the way-too-thin walls of our dorm room and shakes me awake.

 

This shit is old hat to me by now. I’m used to the grunts and general kinkiness (choking, lewd sex-talk, and aprons abound), because it happens so frequently that I really can’t do much about it. Usually I’m able to just go back to sleep and give the guys their privacy, but tonight, the bed seems to be extra squeaky and they’re, like, _super_ into it for it being a Monday night at 12:45.

 

Across the room, I hear rustling. I open an eye without moving in my own bed and see what appears to be Marco shuffling beneath the covers, trying to pull them up over his head to muffle the sound.

 

And before I can stop myself, I’m calling out to him.

 

“Psst,” I whisper, craning my neck a little, “Marco.”

 

The movement halts and before I know it, Marco peeks his little head out from the mass of blankets piled on top of him.

 

“It’s happening again,” is all he says in reply, his words accompanied by a groan. I let out a hushed laugh. Marco sits a little further up in bed and faces the direction of mine, his head nearly hitting the ceiling as he does so.

 

I can’t think of anything else to say so I just shake my head, but I can’t help but feel grateful that Marco is also awake, and that I’m not the only one being subjected to this.

 

He sighs and says something else, but it’s hard to hear his just-above-a-whisper voice over the sound of beds creaking and heavy panting.

 

“Come over here,” I say a little louder, “I can’t hear you.”

 

He looks at me for a moment, and I start to panic; maybe he doesn’t want to get in bed with me, or maybe he just doesn’t want to leave the comfort of his own. I keep thinking of different ‘maybe’s and start to worry myself sick before he pushes the heavy comforters off himself and hops down from his bunk. Before I know it, he’s climbing up into mine and is sitting across from me, cross-legged with his hands in his lap.

 

Marco’s bare arms reflect off the moonlight filtering in through the bedroom window, and I can see a shiver pass through him.

 

“Here,” I say, offering him some blankets, which he gladly accepts before pulling them up to his neck. His leg brushes up against mine… and even though it isn’t much, the physical contact is enough for me to wish the pajama pants I’m sleeping in weren’t so tight.

 

“So, uh,” Marco starts, his face burying in the blanket a little, “how long have you been awake?”

 

“Long enough.” Marco laughs lightly at this. “You?”

 

“The entire time,” he sighs, “and before that, I was up thinking… I couldn’t sleep.”

 

“What about?”

 

He looks up at me and my chest starts doing that weird pounding thing again.

 

“A lot of stuff,” he says, and his tone implies that he has a lot on his plate.

 

I subconsciously scoot a little closer. “You wanna talk about it?”

 

He shrugs. “U-Um, mostly school stuff,” comes his shaky reply – why do I not believe him? But he goes on, “Finals this week. Going home for the holidays next week. It’s just a lot to take in.”

 

I let out a long groan, knowing exactly what he means. “I’m with you on that one. The thought of visiting my family for the holidays… spending it with them without my sister there… It’s not going to be an easy time.”

 

“Your sister,” Marco echoes. “She moved away, right?”

 

“Yeah, when she got married.” My voice lowers and I find myself staring down at my hands, their palms open in front of me. “So it’s just going to be my dad, my stepmom, and me…”

 

“Is that bad?” Marco asks. Something in the way he says it makes me feel like he wants to know more, but doesn’t want to pry – which I respect, and it's this quality about Marco that makes me want to open up. It could be the fact that it’s going on one in the morning, and we’re both really tired, and the filter on things I do and don’t mean to say is wearing thin. His eyes fall on me, waiting for my reply with a sort of gentleness I can’t shake.

 

With a deep breath, I spill it.

 

“It’s both of them,” I say. My stomach is doubling over and doubling over. It's so hard to speak the words that come after. “My stepmom hates my guts, and my dad... he pretends I don’t exist.”

 

Sitting across from me, Marco’s even breathing suddenly tremors and he straightens a little. “Are you serious?”

 

“Of course I am,” I snap, but realizing how harsh my words come out, I offer him an apologetic look. Still, he doesn’t say anything – and why would he? What could he _possibly_ say after something like that?

 

I didn’t even mean to bring it up. I didn’t  _want_ to bring it up…. But before I know it I’ve said too much, and there’s no way for me to backtrack out of this conversation.

 

“It’s always been that way, though,” I offer. My chest heaves. “Ever since I can remember, anyway. They’ve got Klaudia, and she’s enough… I’m just extra baggage.”

 

Marco takes a deep breath. “What do you mean, ‘extra baggage’?”

 

I have to force myself to speak. There’s a pinching feeling at my eyes and I try and ignore it, but my throat’s tight and my lungs ache when I breathe.

 

“I’m the bastard,” I say, and laugh humorlessly at my own confession. My eyes start to prickle even worse. _Don’t you dare fucking cry, Jean Kirschtein. You don’t get to cry – especially not to the sound of Reiner and Bertholdt fucking in the other room._ I clear my throat. “My dad had an affair after him and my stepmom got married, but they’re firm believers in traditional marriage… Didn’t want to get a divorce over something as fucking trivial as faithfulness, right?” I pause to laugh, but again, it’s devoid of any actual humor. This laughter rings miserably in my ears. “But my mom didn’t have the means to take care of me, so I got dumped onto my dad when I was a baby and I haven’t seen her since.”

 

“Jean…” Marco says, trailing off. His words won’t come either.

 

“It’s okay,” I offer, and ignore the way my voice breaks.

 

The quiet hanging between us intensifies as the creaking of the bed two rooms over comes to a stop, and all I can focus on is how I need to keep my breathing even. _Don’t think too hard. Don’t let it shake._

 

And then, there’s a stillness. It’s not in the quiet, it’s not in my chest, but it’s in my shoulders; I don’t realize how much they’ve been trembling until Marco’s arms are wrapped around me tightly. My eyes go wide. The smell of cinnamon clouds my senses and I am reminded of how actually weak I am, from the way I cling against him in desperation to the tears just starting to dampen the collar of his shirt...  _My_ tears.

 

“I’m sure they don’t hate you,” he whispers into my hair. “No parent can hate their own kid.”

 

“You start to feel like that after eighteen years of being held out at arms length,” I sniff. My chest hurts so much. I can’t remember the last time I cried, and I sure as hell don’t remember ever being held by someone when I did. It was always on my own.

 

Marco’s hand rubs soothing circles into my shoulder blades. I can’t believe I’m letting him see me like this.

 

“I didn’t even mean to bring it up,” I tell him.

 

“I know.” His voice is soft, but pained. “I didn’t mean to make you tell me.”

 

“You didn’t.”

 

I feel him nod, and as he does, I bring a wrist up to wipe my sniveling nose and weepy eyes. Dwelling on so many things at once… it’s too much for me to take. I try to remind myself of how good I have it – how they’re paying for me to go to college, how I have a credit card in their name that I can use at will and won’t owe them a cent, how they let me do whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want, and I don’t have any repercussions from my actions.

 

But Marco’s body is warm and I start to think about how good it feels to be wanted by someone. To feel like they care about you.

 

After a few minutes, I manage to get myself under control and let go, and so does he. We sit there in silence again, me wiping at my face with my hands and trying to dry my eyes; I’m grateful for how dark it is, because I wouldn’t want anyone to see me looking the way I’m sure I do. Especially Marco.

 

“You told me once that I was strong,” he says suddenly. I look up to find his eyes boring holes in me. “But so are you, Jean.”

 

A teardrop falls off my chin and I realize that the tables have suddenly turned. When Marco’s mom had called him sobbing, I was the one to comfort him. Now, he’s the one comforting me as I tell him all about how fucked up my life at home is.

 

“I don’t want to go home, man,” I sigh finally.

 

Marco seems to understand – that even though I don’t want to, I _have_ to. It’s the holidays and they’re expecting me, and even if they don’t want me and I don’t want them, it’s an unspoken rule that my ass had better be walking in the door after school lets out. I mean, where else would I go?

 

...It isn’t long before an idea forms in my head.

 

“Hey, Marco,” I start slowly, because the thought has only halfway-formed before the words start to spill from my lips. “Uh, I don’t know if you’re going to be busy over break, but…”

 

Marco blinks, as if to say “go on.”

 

“W-Well,” I stutter, and inwardly punch myself for sounding like such a wimp, “if you wanted, I thought that maybe we could see each other.”

 

 _No! That’s not what I meant to say!_ I can feel my nerves jittering. _You fucking idiot! You were supposed to invite him over!_

 

Something in Marco’s expression makes me feel doubly guilty, because his face falls a little and his shoulders hunch forward. “That would be nice,” he replies, smiling anyway.

 

_Fucking say it now or I swear to God, you’re going to regret it later._

 

“Or you could just come home with me.” The words tumble out of my mouth awkwardly. I wish I could take them back as soon as I say them because I know it’s too forward, and even though it’s what I want, it probably isn’t what he wants. And anyway, I’m bad at rejection.

 

So it hurts when he replies after a moment, his voice still soft and a little sad.

 

“Jean… I have to go home. My brother needs me, and my mom needs me, too.”

 

“Yeah,” I say quickly, hoping to smooth it over casually. It still stings though. “Yeah, I understand. You probably wouldn’t like my family anyway.”

 

“It’s not that!” he nearly shouts, and my eyes go wide, shooting toward the door as though Reiner and Bertholdt were outside listening. I hope they don’t hear us – and it’s weird that suddenly the other way around.

 

“I mean,” Marco huffs, a little quieter this time, “I told my Mom I would be there on Christmas. And I have to see Angelo; it’s been since before Thanksgiving, you know?”

 

“I know,” I echo.

 

We’re both quiet, neither of us knowing what to say. I feel so stupid in front of him. Stupid and immature and thinking only about myself. I’m about to tell him that we should both probably try and get some sleep, because tomorrow is our last day before exams, but the sound of Marco’s voice splitting the silence cuts me off.

 

“Or you could come to my house.”

 

My heart starts thrumming nervously, and even though I want to agree immediately, I can’t. I’m shaking my head before I can stop myself. “Oh, dude, I don’t wanna put that on you. Your family needs you there and stuff, like you said… and my family needs to see me, too. Or, maybe I need to see them, even if I don’t want to. It’s kind of an unspoken agreement I see them, at least for a little while.”

 

This seems to spark another thought in Marco’s head.

 

“What if we visited your family for a little while, then I brought you back home with me to spend Christmas? Unless–“

 

“Marco,” I cut him off, grinning openly in the darkness, “you’re brilliant.”

 

And before I know it, the two of us are planning our stay at one another’s house, completely disregarding how strange it should be to spend an entire break with your roommate. Someone you’ve only known for a few months. There’s something different about us though, and I can tell it when we’re talking excitedly about different things we can show one another on our visits, how long we’ll stay where, and how we’re going to spend Christmas.

 

It’s strange how suddenly someone can come into your life and make a home for themselves inside you, infiltrating all your thoughts, pumping through your veins, putting a stop to the shaking in your bones you hadn’t realized was there in the first place.

 

It’s nearly three in the morning when Marco gets up and goes back to bed, and as we lie all the way across the room from one another, I swear I can still feel his arms around me.

* * *

Finals week kicks our ass – well, mostly Marco’s, but I’d be lying if I said it was a breeze for myself. I visit Marco at work Wednesday night and help him with the flashcards again, bring him a Starbucks and work on putting together the huge ass study guide our Philosophy teacher gave us to “look over.” Like all we had to do was glance through all 32 pages of the damn thing and we’d be ready for the exam. Sure.

 

Of course, the night I go visit him, Connie and Sasha are both there, but so is Armin. He watches the counter while the two dingbats sit across from each other at a small table in the corner of the lobby. While Marco is busy, the two of them usher me over to sit with them, which I hesitate to do before eventually walking over and plopping down in a chair.

 

“So, Jean,” Sasha starts animatedly, clasping her hands together and pinning them to her chest. “I’m having a party Friday night, sort of like an ‘End-of-Finals’ sort of thing.”

  
  
“Oh yeah?” I laugh.

 

“Mhm!” Her whole face lights up and I glance at Connie, who is watching her intently. His eyes focus on her lips. “Not a ton of people will be there – just some friends from a few of my classes, kids we work with – but of course, you and Marco are both invited.”

 

At this, I brighten. This is the first time I’ve ever been personally invited anywhere, as I certainly wasn’t invited to Eren’s frat party. So of course, I can’t help but smile as I say, “Sure, we’ll be there.”

 

“Great!” she grins, then hurries to grab a napkin and pen from off the counter. I notice Marco, who is currently putting baskets together, watching us from across the room. I nod at him and he nods back, but he seems a little confused. I’ll have to tell him later that we both have plans for Friday – the night before we leave for my place.

 

“This is the address,” she says as she sits, writing furiously on the napkin with her left hand while holding it still with her right. Then she flips it around for me to see and points at it with the pen’s cap. “It’s not too far from here, but it’ll be at my apartment. You could probably walk if you wanted.”

 

“Cool,” I say, “thanks.”

 

“I reeeeeeally need to unwind after this hell-week,” Connie sighs, leaning back in his chair and shutting his eyes briefly. “And Sasha’s been driving me crazy with all the studying she’s having me help with.”

 

She shoots him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t the one inviting yourself over every night last week for pizza study sessions.”

 

Connie’s cheeks instantly redden, and as he turns his head, I hear him mumble something like ‘the pizza was all your idea.’

 

 _These two are way too obvious,_ I think. But then I look at Sasha who starts flipping through the thick textbook in front of her without another thought and wonder if she even realizes how head-over-heels Connie is over her.

 

Baldie's scrolling through his Facebook newsfeed as Marco walks up with a couple cookies from the holding case behind the counter. “We’re about to close and were gonna throw these out anyway,” he says, setting them down with a couple extra napkins, “and you guys need study fuel, so have these if you want.”

 

“Thanks, Marco,” I say, grinning up at him. Connie and Sasha thank him too (perhaps a bit _too_ thankful in Sasha’s case) before he heads back behind the counter and starts stocking the shelves.

 

I pick up a cookie and take a bite, realizing now that I probably should have eaten dinner; my stomach growls and I groan in response.

 

“That’s unholy,” Sasha comments, raising her eyebrows as her gaze focuses on my stomach. “Maybe you and Marco should go out to dinner after this or something.”

 

“Maybe,” I say, perking up a little. But when my eyes meet hers again, I get the feeling like my response was a test, and from the look on her face, it was obvious that I had failed.

 

Sasha’s eyes flicker over toward where Marco stands, watching him closely as he picks up a cardboard box and heads to the back. Then she leans a little toward me and, in a hushed voice, says, “Do you like Marco?”

 

I almost choke on the cookie. “W-What?”

 

She leans back a little, folding both arms across her chest. “I dunno. I got the feeling just now.”

 

“No way,” I start, “he’s my roommate.”

 

“Yeah, Sasha,” Connie agrees, backing me up ( _thank god_ ). “They’re roommates, that would be weird.”

 

 _Oh, so I’m weird, huh?!_ I get the sudden urge to reach across the table and pummel Connie right fucking there, despite the fact that his words are totally covering my sorry butt because there’s no way in hell I’m admitting to these two that I maybe kind-of sort-of probably _definitely_ have feelings for Marco.

 

“Okay, okay,” Sasha says defensively, holding up both hands, “whatever you say.” And just like that, we drop it.

* * *

When Friday night rolls around, Marco and I are both totally brain dead – drained of any and all ability to think after the exams we’ve gone through. Even Chemistry, which should have been a breeze since Marco and I _did_ just so happen to be the sweater twin dream team, was god-awful.

 

“I understand if you don’t wanna go,” I tell him as he flips through his closet for something to wear to Sasha’s. “Like, really. The past few days have been exhausting.”

 

“Do you not want to?” Marco asks – and his tone implies that he wants me to deny it, and tell him that I really _do_ want to go, so that’s exactly what I say. “Good,” he replies with a soft smile, then turns back around to continue his search.

 

From Reiner’s room, I hear him calling my name. With a groan, I stand up from the desk chair and make my way across the dorm until I’m standing in his doorway. I generally don’t go in Reiner’s room because I’m afraid of what I’m going to find, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find that it’s pretty clean. His hamper looks kind of like mine though, and I’m sure if Marco were to see it, he’d throw a fit.

 

Reiner looks at me from where he stands in front of the full-body mirror next to his bed. “Hey, Jean,” he says, then turns around to face me. “Honest opinion. Does this look okay?” He motions to his outfit.

 

It looks pretty average to me, but I cross my arms and nod at him. “Looks fine, but I’m probably not the one to be asking for style advice.” Then, after a brief pause, a turn my head over my shoulder and call: “Marcoooooo!”

 

There’s a sound of shuffling from our dorm room before our door opens and he starts across the living room toward us.

 

“What’s up?” he asks.

 

Reiner says nothing, but simply motions to his outfit. A normal green t-shirt and fitted brown pants.

 

“How do I look?”

 

Marco raises an eyebrow. “Uh, you’re asking me if you look okay?”

 

“Jean says you’re the one with the fashion sense,” he replies simply, then looks back again at himself in the mirror, pinning his chin between his thumb and pointer finger. Clearly he’s thinking really hard about this.

 

I laugh. “Where are you off to tonight that you care so much about your outfit?”

 

“Unlike _you_ ,” he states matter-of-factly, “ _I_ happen to _care_ about what I look like… But yes, there is a party tonight that Bertl and I will be attending so I told him I wouldn’t look like a total slob.” He finishes the last part of his sentence quickly and a little quieter than the tone he began it with.

 

This quiets Marco, and upon further inspection, he decides, “It looks like something you would pick out.”

 

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” Reiner asks, a little unsure himself.

 

“It’s fine,” Marco smiles, “but I’ll help you pick something out if you want.”

 

This appeases Reiner. “That would be hella.” _How eloquent._

 

Marco, who hasn’t even found something for _himself_ to wear yet, starts the grueling process of finding something for Hunky Muscles. Part of me just wants to skip this whole night because in my mind, it’s either _we go now_ or _we wait around forever deciding what to wear._ But Marco shoots me a look over his shoulder that tells me to stay, so I sigh restlessly and plop down at Reiner's computer desk.

 

“Where are you going tonight, anyway?” Marco asks. “I mean, the party. Where at?”

 

“You probably wouldn’t know them,” Reiner muses. “Some girl I had a class with.”

 

This seems to pique Marco’s interest – as well as my own.

 

“What’s her name?” I interject.

 

After a second, Reiner glances over at me and folds his arms up over his chest. “Girl’s name is Sasha Braus. Why, you guys know her or something?”

 

Marco gasps. “That’s such a coincidence! We’re going to her party tonight, too!”

 

“You’re kidding!” Reiner grins, clapping his hands together. “That’s crazy. You too, Jean?”

 

“He said ‘we,’” I say, rolling my eyes a little.

 

“Well _sor-ry,_ Mister Sass. Anyway, I’m proud of you. You’re really getting yourself out there. Making some friends.”

 

I scoff, but for some reason, Reiner’s praise on my sociability kind of feels like when a teacher says you did really great on a project and gives you a little gold star sticker at the top. I still can’t believe he’s our age – the unnatural dad-liness is too weird to handle.

 

Clearing my throat, I ask, “When are you guys leaving?”

 

“As soon as Bertholdt gets here and Marco finds me something to wear. Want to ride with us?”

 

Eventually we all come to an agreement on the driving situation, and Reiner and Marco (by some miracle) find the perfect shirt/pant combos for the party. At nine o’clock, Bertholdt comes walking in the door looking better than all three of us put together. He’s casual, but not overly so, and even _I_ can appreciate that.

 

Reiner gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and wraps an arm around his waist. “These two are coming with,” he says, filling him in. “They know Sash.”

 

“I work with her,” Marco smiles, “and Jean met her on Halloween.”

 

The sweaty prince smiles down at us and says, “Oh, cool! Well, we should probably get going. She texted me before I came over here that we should get there soon if we wanted anything.” Bertholdt means alcohol.

 

We all are in agreement, and before too long we’re all piling into Bertholdt’s spacious mini-van and driving off down the road toward Sasha’s apartment complex. It really isn’t far, but Reiner still is adamant about choosing the perfect driving tunes – some R. Kelly starts bumping in the car and he hits the notes like a champ. We’re all laughing as the car pulls to a stop in front of an old brick apartment building with flickering light fixtures.

 

“So this is her place?” Marco asks, wiping tears from laughing too hard out of his eyes.

 

“We’ve never been here before,” Reiner states, “hence, y’know, the whole ‘best impression’ thing Bertholdt’s got me down for.”

 

Bertholdt rolls his eyes but smiles and tells Reiner softly that he looks nice. I hit the little automatic door opener button and hop out, then wait for Marco to follow before closing it behind us with a loud rattle.

 

“She said it would be on the second floor,” Marco tells me. We walk in step together, ditching the boyfriends who are talking a little privately still in the car and walking up the stoop. There’s a row of names on the side, all situated beside little buttons which correspond to them. We both bend down, squinting to read through the dark, and eventually find the name BRAUS written near the very bottom.

 

I fish a hand out of my pocket and press the button twice, just for good measure. After only a few moments, the sound of a shrill buzzing hits my ears and Marco grabs the doorknob, twisting it to the left and opening up the door. He holds it for me and I thank him shortly, and up the pair of us go.

 

“214,” Marco reiterates. “Should be just up around the–”

 

My whole body comes into sudden contact with someone rounding the corner at the same point as me, and out of instinct, I reach out to steady them.

 

“Oi, Sasha,” I laugh, pulling back a little when I realize it's her who I've run in to. “Sorry.”

 

“I was just coming to get you both!” she giggles; her cheeks are rosy and she’s standing close enough for me to feel how warm her breath is. “Connie spotted you all coming up from the street and told me I should come and grab ya.”

 

Marco gives me a strange look and I realize I’m still holding onto Sasha with both hands. Quickly, I let drop my arms to my sides and run a hand through my hair. _Act cool, Jean. Act cool._ I can’t even imagine what he’s thinking.

 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing each of our hands. “You guys are just in time for Dirty Truth-or-Dare.”

 

Marco blushes and I can’t help but laugh, saying under my breath, “We’re too sober for this.”

 

Sasha’s apartment is just down the hall, the third door on the left. She lets go of my hand but keeps Marco’s firm in her own – which is hard for me not to notice. Subconsciously, I narrow my eyes at her and wish it was enough for her to let go of him.

 

 _God, I’m like a clingy boyfriend,_ I think, but immediately catch myself. _But I’m_ not _Marco’s boyfriend… Oh, god. Do I want to be?_

 

Quickly, I shake my head to clear away any and all super-gay thoughts and follow them both inside, closing the door behind us as a loud ‘whooping’ erupts from the kitchen.

 

The whole place is decorated for the holidays, with a Christmas tree all lit up, ornaments hung with precision and popcorn strings tied all around it. A little angel sits perched on its peak. There are hand-cut snowflakes strung together, hanging like banners all along the ceiling and little white lights line the walls. The welcome mat reads “Happy Holidays” and there’s an array of boots and tennis shoes in the corner.

 

“My babies are here!” Sasha calls to Connie who I can see is pulling something out of the oven. Sugar cookies.

 

She points at Marco and me before (finally) letting go of Freckles and rushing toward the kitchen counter, grabbing the red plastic cup with her name written sloppily on it. Immediately, I scan the room for any signs of Eren Jaeger, but am pleasantly surprised not to find him anywhere. I see Armin though, who appears to be looking through an encyclopedia and explaining the readings to a heavily-inebriated freckled girl and a little blonde who bears a striking resemblance to Armin. The freckled girl has a glazed-over expression on her face and an arm wrapped around Armin-with-Eyelashes.

 

The Real Armin looks over at us and his face brightens; immediately he raises a hand and calls out to us. I wave obligatorily back at him, then I glance over at Marco, expecting him to be doing the same. Instead, he hasn’t even realized Armin’s here. His eyes are staring over at a blond girl who has a cooler near the couch open, and pulls out a fifth of Jack Daniel’s out of it. I tear my eyes away as she starts to pour it into her cup and nudge Marco, understanding. His eyes find mine and I motion to the corner where everyone else seems to have left their shoes, and begin to take mine off. Marco follows suit.

 

"I'm sure there's beer if you'd rather have that, so don't worry," I tell him. "It's probably better if you stayed away from the hard stuff." Marco nods back at me with a smile. 

 

Suddenly, a small speaker near the door sounds with multiple buzzing noises and I remember: _Reiner and Bertholdt._

 

“Who could that be?” I hear Sasha ask – but I already know.

 

“The boyfriends,” I reply, and it only takes her a second to realize who I mean. “I can go get them if you want.”

 

She smiles widely and her eyelids seem to drop a fraction. “That would be greeeeat.” Pausing, Sasha turns to Marco. “Come on, lemme getcha somethin’ to drink.”

 

Marco shoots me a helpless look over his shoulder which I can only laugh at, because Sasha has probably been planning on getting Marco drunk again ever since he kicked ass at beer pong a month ago. There’s a table set up near the sliding door to the balcony with cups all aligned in a mirrored, triangular formation; I can tell that before the night is through, Marco will have shown everyone up all over again.

 

I put the shoes back on I had just started to take off, head out the way I came, bound down the steps, and make it to the door to let them in since Sasha had forgotten to accept their buzz on the intercom.

 

Reiner’s standing just in front of Bertholdt, but even in the dim light, I can tell his lips are swollen. I shudder involuntarily, knowing exactly what was just happening in the car but not wanting to think about it.

 

“Hey, Jean,” Reiner smiles. "Listen, I gotta talk to you for a minute.”

 

Bertholdt gives the pair of us a look and I shrug, because honestly I have no clue what it is Reiner wants to talk to me about.

 

“I guess I’ll just, um, be upstairs,” the tall boy says, starting up the steps.

 

“Second floor, third door on the left,” I call, but try to keep my voice a reasonable volume since there are clearly other people occupying the rooms in this apartment building.

 

I turn back around and meet Reiner’s gaze just as soon as Bertholdt is out of hearing distance. “So?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, “what did you want to talk to me about?”

 

Reiner immediately goes into what I like to call “Football Coach Stance,” meaning he hunches over a little and straightens both hands, pointing the tips of his fingers toward me before launching into an elaborate plan of attack.

 

He says, “Tonight's the night. You gotta make a move.”

 

I almost choke. “ _What?_ ”

 

“You. And Marco.” His words are slow so that I can wrap my head around them. “I know you like him, and tonight is literally the perfect time to do it.”

 

“Do what?” I ask, half of me genuinely curious while the other half is completely shocked at what Reiner is soberly suggesting.

 

“Tell him how you feel. Kiss the dude. I don’t know, something. Hold his hand, for Christ sake! Pick a picture.”

 

“I don’t like him,” I try, but my voice sounds weaker than when I had denied it to Sasha and Connie – and Reiner can tell.

 

He folds his arms across his chest and straightens his back, standing at his full height which is (admittedly) taller than me. “You’re a terrible liar,” Reiner smirks. “But you gotta understand that now could be the perfect time – you know, the drinks are flowin’, you’re both having a good time, and bam!” He holds both hands up sharply for effect. “Ya just grab him and kiss him.”

 

“You’re kidding me,” I say, letting the pretense slide now as I inquire further into Reiner’s suggestion. “That actually _works?_ ”

 

“I mean,” Reiner laughs a little, then brings a hand to the back of his neck, “I’ve never done it that way, but it’s a great theory, right?”

 

I roll my eyes. “There’s no way that would ever happen. _Ever._ ” With that, I turn around and start up the stairs, hearing Reiner following me with a scoff. He mutters something under his breath and I don’t care to listen close enough to find out what that is.

 

All I know is that now, and for the rest of the night, my mind is going to be shamefully focused on one thing and one thing alone:

 

The unattainable prospect of kissing Marco Bodt.

* * *

I don’t think I mean to, but by some twist of fate, I get horribly wasted embarrassingly quickly. I know I can’t be the only one because Sasha keeps stumbling around and bumping into people, and that blond girl with the Jack Daniel’s is laying all over Reiner and Bertholdt with flushed cheeks.

 

But when I look at Marco, he seems relatively normal. Compared to where I know _I’m_ at, anyway.

 

“You guys,” Sasha says, then repeats the same phrase four times until we’re all looking at her from our places in the big circle taking up her entire living room. We have all been lost in conversation with each other and over the past hour, no one has really moved from their seats. “We still haven’t played Dirty Truth-or-Dare!”

 

Connie, who sits directly to her right, places a hand over top of hers and whispers something heavily in her ear. Whatever it is, her eyes light up and she grins cheekily.

 

“I get to start since it’s my party and I’m the host,” she states matter-of-factly, then sits up a little straighter.

 

I’m so drunk I can’t even protest playing the stupid game, and instead lean my head against Marco’s shoulder. I watch Sasha’s eyes as she scans the group. Beside me, I can feel Marco’s breathing hitch. _You’re acting weird again, Jean,_ I think hopelessly, but let the thought dissipate just as soon as it forms in my head. I come to realize that I don’t really care much that I’m making Marco uncomfortable, as completely terrible as it sounds. All I know is that my stomach is warm and his broad shoulders make a nice place to rest my head, and that’s good enough for me.

 

“Okay, Ymir!” Sasha says, and points a sloppy finger at the freckled girl whose name is apparently Ymir. To be honest, she kind of freaks me out; her eyes are all squinted and she has her arm still wrapped protectively around the small, blond, Armin-looking girl. But when Sasha says her name, her eyebrows raise a little and her stoic face breaks into a smile. At least, I think it’s a smile… It’s an _attempt_ at a smile, anyway.

 

“Shoot,” Ymir says, her free hand pointing into a gun and clicking her thumb like a trigger.

 

“No, you have to pick truth or dare,” Sasha corrects her.

 

Ymir laughs. “Oh, dare. Duh.”

 

Sasha taps a finger to her chin, eyes rising to the ceiling as she ponders the possibilities of dirty Truth-or-Dare before an idea seems to visibly strike her. There’s a sudden fire in her eyes as she leaps up from the floor and runs to the kitchen. We’re all looking around the circle, a little confused, and when I glance up at Marco, he just shrugs.

 

When she returns, she’s got something in her hand.

 

“Oh, Jesus fuck,” Ymir mutters, putting a hand to her forehead. “Please tell me that’s not-”

 

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Sasha grins, holding up the banana in her grip like some sort of glorious trophy. “Ymir, I dare you to demonstrate your oral skills on this here banana.”

 

We’re all quiet for a moment before Ymir sighs and holds out a hand. “Just give me the banana.”

 

She starts to peel back the yellow skin of the banana and everyone starts to laugh loudly. I can’t help laughing, too, and the feeling of Marco’s chest vibrating against me only makes me crack further.

 

Ymir brings the peeled banana to her lips and, after only a moment of preparation, she shoves the whole thing into her mouth and pulls it back out again. However, despite how far she managed to shove it in there, when she pulls it out, there’s a big hunk of banana missing – and the more times she pushes it in and pulls it out, more and more banana seems to be shaved off by her two front teeth.

 

“Oh, God,” Reiner mutters across the circle, “I pray to god you never get ahold of my dick.”

 

“That just looks painful,” Connie shivers. “Dick-suckin’ game real weak, Ymir.”

 

Ymir swallows the banana in her mouth and wips her lips with the back of her wrist. “Good thing my pussy game is strong, huh?”

 

We’re all laughing even harder now. Sasha has her head pressed to Connie’s neck; Bertholdt is hunched over with his face in his hands, laughing silently as his chest heaves up and down; Marco wipes tears out of his eyes with the tips of his fingers, and I almost fall over, my forehead pressed flat against Marco’s knee.

 

“Okay, okay,” Ymir says, putting the banana aside and rubbing her hands together. “Now, for my next victim.” Her tone is a mix of joking and menacing so I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. Lucky, her eyes skim right over me and land on the husky blond across from us.

 

“Reiner,” she smirks, “truth or dare?”

 

Reiner seems to sit up a little straighter and puffs his chest out a little so that his shirt strains against the rippling pectorals (i.e. moobs) beneath it. What a dude.

 

“Dare,” he says with complete certainty. Beside him, Bertholdt starts to sweat – probably nervous that his boyfriend is about to embarrass the shit out of him. I’d be nervous, too. Reiner’s such a fucking ham, he’ll do or say anything – especially when he’s wasted.

 

“Okay, Muscles McGee,” Ymir grins, narrowing her eyes. “Then I dare you… to give someone in this room a lap dance!”

 

Reiner’s strong expression falters and he grits his teeth, eyes widening a little. “Hn,” he grunts, standing, “no big deal. I’ve seen it done before.”

 

“Never given one?” I find myself asking – a little surprised.

 

“Only _been_ given one,” Reiner cheeses, then gives Bertholdt a knowing look. _Of course._

 

I am so blessed that Reiner continues to provide new and intimate information related to his relationship with Bertholdt with which to emotionally scar me. Really, it is a treat.

 

Reiner faces Bertholdt and the room erupts into laughter all over again, especially at Bertholdt’s expression of pure embarrassment. “Please, Reiner,” Bertholdt says, “use a chicken. Please.”

 

“Just pretend they’re not lookin’, baby,” the blond slurs, bending down to throw one leg over Bertholdt’s waist and pressing both hands to his chest.

 

“Why is this happening?” Bertholdt asks, though it isn’t clear who he’s asking. Probably God. The God of Lap Dances and Other Inappropriate Public Displays of Affection.

 

Reiner takes a deep breath, looks into Bertholdt’s eyes, and begins.

 

The “lap dance” (if you can call it that) really only lasts about fifteen seconds. Reiner’s butt moves up and down, back and forth, all in a somewhat gyrating motion, but it looks so robotic and awkward that I watch it happening like a train wreck: it’s awful and painful to see, but you just can’t tear your eyes away.

 

“Boooooooo!” Ymir shouts, throwing a couple chips at Reiner. He stops when he hears the hyena-like laughter erupting from us all, and he blushes vigorously.

 

He shrugs, dismounting the sweaty Bertholdt, and manages a few words. “I tried, and therefore, no one should criticize me.”

 

Once we’re able to control ourselves, Reiner takes his seat again and pats Bertholdt on the back; his boyfriend’s tan face has reddened beyond repair and he can’t seem to meet Reiner’s gaze. “Sorry, Bertl,” Reiner tells him, his hand finally resting on his back before trailing his fingers up and down. “I’ll submit an official apology later, if you’d like.” Then, bringing a hand to the side of his mouth, he stage whispers: “In bed.”

 

“Oh, gross,” Armin groans, falling onto his back and covering his face with his hands.

 

“Welcome to our world,” I laugh, gesturing to Marco and myself. “This is just the tip of the iceberg.” Sasha and Connie bust out laughing, and I can’t help the drunken giggles that start to infiltrate my words. “You guys should hear what goes on when the lights go out. It’s just one big, sexual, gay nightmare.”

 

“Livin’ the dream,” Reiner and Ymir say, both at once, and when they realize the unison in which they’ve spoken, they cheer and reach across the circle to bump fists.

 

“Okay, Reiner,” Sasha says very seriously, getting straight to the point. “Now you have to choose someone to-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he cuts her off with a chuckle, still trying to get over the embarrassment he had just bequeathed upon both he and Bertholdt, as well as a terrible dose of secondhand embarrassment for everyone else in the room. “Alright,” he starts again, trying to sound a bit more serious. He glances once at each of us, weighing his options, before his eyes land on Marco.

 

My heart nearly beats straight out of my chest when I realize that everyone has their eyes on not only Marco, but me, too – and it’s because I’m laying up against him, shamelessly so. My mind is too fuzzy to think correctly, so I can’t even force myself to move from the position I’m in because Marco’s chest is moving up and down in time with mine, and his hand on mine feels–

 

Wait a second. _His hand on mine?_ How long has it been there, exactly?

 

Despite everything, and despite the furious thrumming in my chest, I don’t move a muscle.

 

“Marco.”

 

Beside me, Marco gulps. “U-Uh, truth,” he blurts out, stuttering a bit as he does so. “I mean, I’m not very daring, so…”

 

“It’s okay,” Reiner offers. “Somebody had to shake it up a little bit, y’know.”

 

“I mean, I don’t think I could give any lap dances or anything like that,” Marco adds with a laugh, waving a hand in front of him defensively. A light blush stains his cheeks.

 

_He’s… cute._

 

The thought catches me off-guard and I blink twice, shaking my head a bit to get a grip on things. I can’t fight the thought off completely because now it’s more than just a thought – it’s a notion, it’s a physical sensation that cripples me and twists knots in my gut, tying them tighter and tighter until it’s hard to breathe. My chest aches, but the pain is good. It is. And as much as I wish it weren’t, that place in the very deepest part of me knows it doesn’t matter what I wish. All that matters is what’s real.

 

And, sitting next to me, with his hand casually gripping mine, Marco is the realest thing in my life.

 

“Okay, Marco,” Reiner says, and his words bring me back to reality. “So, truth?”

 

He nods.

 

“Alright,” he says, thinking only for a moment before deciding upon a question. “So, level with us. When was the last time you got laid?”

 

I hadn’t realized before how much I desperately want to know the answer to this question. Pulling away a bit, I set my gaze on Marco and watch as his facial expression changes from surprised to completely and utterly mortified. It makes me feel kind of bad.

 

I’m really glad Reiner hadn’t chosen to ask _me_ that question, because I don’t think I’m a good enough liar to tell them all anything but the shameful truth: that I’ve never done anything besides kissing before. And even that was innocent. Looking around the room, I get a strange feeling of inadequacy as the question hangs in the air above us all… I start to wonder who else is a virgin, because the thought of being the only college student with no sexual experience is abysmal.

 

Marco coughs into his fist, and I’m sitting close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. He might not be as drunk as I am, but he’s sure not sober.

 

“W-well,” he starts shakily, “I, um, I’ve never…” His words trail off and the whole room is hanging on his every word, waiting for the confirmation. “I’ve never done it before,” he finishes quickly.

 

My stomach drops.

 

“…Ever?” It’s Connie who asks it this time.

 

His smile is sideways and his eyebrows have knit together. He nods. “It’s pretty embarrassing…”

 

“No way!” Armin shouts, sitting back upright from the place where he’s been lying on the ground. “I’ve never done it either!”

 

What was once a serious topic of conversation seems to change into a humorous one, and everyone laughs. Armin does, too, squeaking out, “It’s not funny!”

 

Connie runs a hand over his buzzed-head and laughs lightly. “Hey… Don’t worry Marco, I’ve never done it, either.”

 

This seems to surprise Sasha, who sits next to him. Her eyes which were once filled with laughter now dim, and her eyelids flutter. “You, too?” she asks, and when Connie looks up at her, he smiles.

 

“Damn,” Reiner says, letting out a low whistle. “I gotta get you guys _laid._ ”

 

At this, Marco smiles. It’s not that his smile is a rare thing, but it seems so genuine in this moment, surrounded by people who don’t pass judgment and can help him laugh off how uncomfortable he is with the subject matter.

 

 _Friends,_ my mind supplies the word. _This is what friends do… Could these people be my friends, too?_

 

An overwhelming sense of indebtedness surrounds me as I realize I owe Marco for everything.

 

“My turn now, right?” Marco asks, pointing to himself. He looks to Reiner who nods at him, and he takes in a deep breath. “Okay, um… Armin. Truth or dare?”

 

Armin’s eyes go wide and I can’t help but chuckle a little. Coconut Head didn't know what he was getting himself into when he didn’t sit immediately himself out of this game.

 

“Truth! Truth!” he exclaims wildly, and Marco looks at him knowingly. Of course Armin couldn’t pick dare. “Go easy on me,” he says under his breath, but it’s loud enough that I can hear it.

 

“Alright,” Marco says. “Oh, man, I can’t think of a dirty one!”

 

Sasha hears this and almost protests, but when she sees the look on Armin’s face, she decides not to enforce the rules too strongly in his case. So Marco goes right ahead and asks, “Armin… what is… your biggest regret in life?”

 

The room stills and we all await Armin’s answer. I can’t imagine he’s too sorry about anything in his past, seeing as how he’s such an innocent little guy, but I can still remember him in high school, and the way he never looked me in the eye. My chest starts to sting and I wonder if he regrets it at all – maybe not enough for it to be his _biggest_ regret, but I wonder still if he holds any remorse at all for it.

 

“My biggest regret,” Armin reiterates, although he is silent for a while. My body is tense and I wonder if Marco can tell. “I guess… I wish I had been able to come out of my shell sooner.” His words are simple but they hold a heavy meaning, and I know that everyone feels it. “In high school, and even before, I didn’t make friends easily. I clung to Eren and Mikasa like little kid, always following them, trailing right at their heels, and getting the worst anxiety when they weren’t around.

 

“As you guys can see, they aren’t here right now. I mean, that’s not their fault – Eren got sick and Mikasa stuck around to take care of him, and I’m not complaining. But… once I came to college, things were different – they _are_ different. I can talk to you guys really easily, because I trust you all.”

 

At this, Reiner ruffles his hair a little. I wonder briefly how they know each other, but I stopped being surprised who all Reiner knows as soon as he showed up to this party and got on so well with everyone.

 

Armin continues. “I pushed a lot of people away, and I didn’t give them the time of day in high school.” His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say my name. He doesn’t have to; I understand. “I really regret how I used to be, but I can’t change the past. All I can do is move forward, right?” He laughs, closing his eyes once before reopening them. They’re a little wet and I wonder if this is brought on by the alcohol or if it’s genuine. “I’m gonna miss you all over break.”

 

His words sound sober in my ears, even though I know for a fact he isn’t. But maybe it’s because he’s been reflecting on these thoughts for so long that he can speak them without hesitation, without tremor, without any reserve.

 

“Aww, Armin!” Sasha says. Her voice sounds choked, like she’s holding back tears, too. She wraps him in a big hug. “We love you. And I’m really glad you decided to work at the café with us.”

 

“And that you brought Marco,” Connie smiles. His tone, which is usually rather brash, seems softened around the edges. “And that Marco brought Jean.”

 

I glance up at Marco, and after a moment, he glances down at me. That smile is back again, and my heart pounds in my chest. _I want to be the reason you smile like this,_ I think. _I want to be the cause of all your happiness._ These thoughts are selfish, but I can’t stop them.

 

“This shit got way too real,” the blond girl with the Jack – whose name I found out is Annie – says with a sigh, but even now I can tell she isn’t aggravated about it. She’s simply stating the facts, and a sudden seriousness certainly has befallen us since the game started.

 

“Sorry guys,” Armin smiles, wiping his eyes dry. “Okay, Jean.”

 

The suddenness takes me by surprise and my eyes flash to Armin, who is smiling over at me. “Oh Jesus.” The inner turmoil suddenly occurs when the option of picking either truth or dare arises. I can’t decide which is the lesser of the two evils, because they’re both such awful solicitations of public ridicule. But then I think of the way Reiner was forced to embarrass Bertholdt and decide that if the dare were to involve something of equal shame, I wouldn’t want that shame to fall on Marco’s shoulders, too.

 

“Truth,” I say firmly.

 

Reiner cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Pussyyyyyy.”

 

“Shut up!” I snap at him lazily, and he grins. “Just gimme the truth, Armin.”

 

“Uh, okay,” Armin starts, and his eyes roll upward as though he’s really trying his hardest to come up with something to ask me. “Oh, God. I don’t know – I can’t think of anything!”

 

“Maybe we can just skip me then,” I try with a laugh, but my voice breaks.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Reiner cuts in, staring me down with squinted eyes. “I had to fuckin’ lap dance on Bertholdt, so your pussy ass is gonna answer a goddamn truth.”

 

_Oh, shit._

 

“I got one,” Reiner smiles, then leans over to Armin and whispers it in his ear. I have the worst sinking feeling in my stomach as he does it, and Armin’s eyes light up in a sort of mischievous way that makes me want to jump off Sasha’s balcony to avoid whatever the hell I’m about to have to answer. To prepare for the words I know are coming, I sit up, pull my hand away from Marco’s, and fold my fingers together.

 

“Okay, Jean,” Armin giggles. “Your truth – have you ever seen Marco naked?”

 

 _That’s not fucking fair!_ I think, and wish I had the strength to glare at Reiner. _He already knows the fucking answer, even if nobody else does!_

 

Beside me, Marco’s face has turned beet-red, and the blush starts to creep down his neck, past the collar of his shirt.

 

“Fuck,” I sputter, “u-uh, yeah.” Thoughts of Marco's little nude-modeling session come rushing back; immediately I crouch forward, burying my head in my hands as everyone in the circle starts to whoop, catcall and laugh, completely at my expense.

 

Looking up through my fingers, I try to reason with them. “No, but it’s only because-”

 

“No, Jean! You don’t have to explain,” Armin says – and he’s the only one not laughing. Defeated, I lean into Marco’s shoulder and let out a gross sob.

 

“It’s okay,” Marco tells me, “those were dark times.”

 

“You guys don’t understand,” I whine, my words slurring. “Marco’s butt has _so_ many _freckles._ ” This confession only makes them laugh harder, and when I thought Marco’s face had been red before, well, it wasn’t. But it sure is now.

 

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry I just said that,” I tell him, looking up into his eyes through half-closed eyelids. “I… I’m so sorry, Marco.”

 

Freckles nudges me and smiles a little, despite how humiliated he probably is. I smile back at him and can’t help thinking: _If only it could stay like this._

 

The game goes on for a long time. I don’t remember half of it, even as it’s happening. All I have are brief memories, snippets of scenes like I’m watching it all happening on TV. Sasha pretends to make out with a hot dog. Bertholdt forfeits when Connie dares him to keep his hands off Reiner for the rest of the night.

 

Before long though, we are all lost in conversation amongst each other and the game is forgotten, but to be honest, no one really minds. I’m leaning up against the couch, suddenly very tired, and Marco is lying on his side beside me. I think about how easy it would be for me to reach over and run my fingers through his hair, because it just looks so _smooth_ , and how I’d probably end up mussing with it, ruining the little “middle part” thing he’s always got going on. But I don’t; I keep my hands to myself like I know I should and watch him watching Reiner and Bertholdt take control of the remote. Bertholdt flips through the channels and tries to get us to put on Friends, but apparently Annie hates Friends so he keeps looking. Eventually, when he can’t seem to find anything, Reiner gives it a go.

 

“Your cup is empty,” I hear from behind me. Thinking that someone must be talking to me, I look down into the plastic cup in my grip and find it full. Squinting, I glance over my shoulder. It’s Connie, but he isn’t talking to me after all – he’s talking to Sasha.

 

I tap Marco discreetly on the shoulder and when he looks over, I point at the two behind us. At this, he sits up a little further on his elbows and steals a glance at Connie and Sasha. Then he looks back to me – and I can feel his eyes boring holes in my head, but when he returns his gaze to the scene unfolding before us, my stomach starts to get upset and I have to take another sip of whatever the hell I’m drinking to put it at ease.

 

Connie’s hand moves to Sasha’s waist.

 

“Come on, let’s go fill it up,” he says quietly, but his cheeks are flushed and when he goes to lead her to the kitchen, she sets her own cup down, resting her palm flat against his chest.

 

And then we watch as Sasha takes him by the hand and leads him to the bedroom.

 

“Holy shit,” I blurt just as soon as the door closes behind them.

 

Marco laughs and leans his head against my shoulder. “I knew they’d get together sometime. They’re mad for each other.”

 

“You knew it too?” I ask – because as far as I’m currently concerned, no one else would ever be able to tell except me. Because I’m _so_ perceptive.

 

“Of course,” he says with a soft smile, cheeks a gentle shade of pink. “I’ve known the whole time, even though they couldn't see it. I just didn’t want to push them, you know? I think it’s better when things happen this way. It’s natural.”

 

I don’t say anything in reply because all I can think about is how Reiner told me I should make a move on Marco and how completely unnatural that would be if I were to ever do it. Which I won’t. I _can’t._ Marco couldn’t like me that way; we’re just friends, and there’s no way I’m even on his radar.

 

I can’t think clearly. Erm, straight. I can’t think straight. I’m thinking gay. Like, really gay. Oh god, my thoughts are so gay.

 

 _GET IT TOGETHER, KIRSCHTEIN._ I physically slap myself on the cheek and shake my head, and Marco gives me a strange look but doesn’t question it. He probably should question it, though, I mean I _am_ hitting myself in the face because of what he’s doing to me.

 

_Oh, yeah. Marco’s doing a whole heck of a lot to you, isn’t he? Because he totally forced you to like him as more than a friend, because he totally led you on in that way and made you feel like these feelings are warranted… Jean, you’re an idiot._

 

A few minutes later, Annie announces that she’s going outside to smoke, and Ymir and Christa accompany her. All three girls get up and head out onto the balcony, and through the opening in the foggy glass window, I can see what looks like snow – the first snow of the year.

 

“Marco, look,” I tell him, then point at the white flecks drifting down, visible only while the door is propped open.

 

“Hm?” he says, but when he turns, it’s too late.

 

“Nothing,” I sigh after a moment. I don’t know why it was so important for Marco to see the goddamned snow, it just was. Something about it was very much like him – pure and gentle and…

 

It’s the first snow this winter, sort of like a clean slate. Maybe Marco could be the first… well, anything, on mine. I mean, shit, I can’t even think about holding his hand without chickening out like an idiot. The thought of being Marco’s first is enough for my jaw to clench, and I can’t shake the sudden image that appears in my head.

 

Marco lying down beneath me, my hands roaming up and down his sides as his breath catches in his throat. Pinched shut eyes, gripping my hair as I bend down and wrap my lips around his…

 

 _Fuck,_ I think, and realize how tight my pants are becoming. I quickly cross my legs and hope to god he doesn’t notice yet another awkward boner.

 

“Just pick something,” I hear Bertholdt say to Reiner. “I don’t even care what we watch anymore, but this blue screen is driving me crazy.”

 

The big blond rolls his eyes and puts a hand on the taller boy’s knee. “You’re such a diva.” Nonetheless, Reiner flips through a few more screens of channels before clicking a button on the remote and bringing his selection to full screen.

 

And when I see what it is, I almost throw up all over the place because _there is no way this is going to happen in public._

 

“No fucking way,” I shout at him abruptly. “We are not watching another fucking episode of What Not to Wear.”

 

Reiner looks hurt. “Bertl and I like this show,” he states.

 

“Well I don’t give a fuck! I’ll fight you, right now!” I’m suddenly getting to my feet. “I will fight _you_ , Reiner, or Bertholdt, I don’t care.”

 

“Oh you wanna _fight_ me?” Reiner laughs, looking down his nose at me as he stands.

 

“It’s not funny!” I stagger backward, but as I stumble, I realize that this whole thing is ridiculous and start to laugh a little. “It’s n-not funny,” I repeat again, but the laughter starts to seep into my words so they come out as stifled chuckles rather than menacing, the way they sound in my head.

 

“And I’ll fight you, too, Bertholdt!” I tell him, pointing a finger in his direction with the hand that isn’t holding the plastic cup. I take another sip and step closer to him.

 

“I don’t want to fight you, Jean,” he says, his brow creasing with worry.

 

“YOU HAVE TO!” I yell.

 

“Oh no,” Bertholdt says with genuine fear, holding up both hands in front of him which act as a shield.

 

“I’ll fight you,” I repeat again.

 

Bertholdt looks at me hazily through his fingers and cries, “Please don’t hit me! I’m sorry I’m so awkward and sweaty!”

 

The laughter in my throat bubbles again and I’m crouching, doubled-over in side-splitting hilarity because Bertholdt really _is_ awkward and sweaty, but I’m not sure why he felt the need to scream it at me.

 

I spin on my heel upon regaining my composure and look down at Marco. On impulse, I shout at him, “You wanna fight me?”

 

Marco blinks up at me, then shakes his head once. “No thanks, Jean,” he says simply.

 

For some reason, his answer catches me completely off-guard. I was so sure he would want to fight me, too – but I was _not_ so sure why I was asking to fight people in the first place, especially Marco.

 

I bend down a little, the laughter dying in my throat.

 

“Y-You _don’t_ want to fight me?” I ask incredulously.

 

“Why would I want to fight you, Jean?” Marco asks, tilting his head to the side, genuinely confused. “You’re my best friend.”

 

I stop. My open mouth closes and the fist I’ve made with my free hand loosens. My chest feels strangely full, enveloped with a strange sensation that’s almost weightless. Without another thought, I stretch both arms out and wrap them tightly around Marco, whispering ‘thank you’s into the crook of his neck. I take a deep breath. Everything smells like him.

 

He hugs me back instantly and for that I’m grateful – so I don't look like a total creep or anything. But he’s my best friend so he probably doesn’t think anything of me hugging him anyway. I mean, why would he?

 

I blink my eyes open and notice Bertholdt is watching me. He has a soft smile on his face and a light blush on his cheeks, and something about the way his gaze hits me makes my stomach tighten all over again. With one more soft breath, I let go of Marco and stand, then offer him my hand and help him up as well.

 

“W-Where are we going?” Marco asks, and for some reason, he sounds a little nervous.

 

I jab a thumb in the direction of the back porch. “We’re gonna go see if that Annie chick wants to fight me.”

 

“Oh, no we’re not,” Marco says, and as I start to head in the direction of the balcony, he steers me back toward the front door. “Jean,” he starts again, “I think you need some fresh air. Do you want to go outside for a minute?”

 

I think for a beat and then nod, setting my cup down (which is now thankfully empty, because I know I’ve drunk much more than I needed to). Marco and I pull our tennis shoes on and pick up our jackets which are buried beneath a pile of ten others near the door.

 

“Y’all goin’ outside?” Reiner asks. “Stay close, okay? Two words: Buddy System. I don’t want you guys getting picked up by some random creep or doing something stupid and getting lost.”

 

“Okay, Mom,” I joke, rolling my eyes. “We won’t be long.”

 

“Take all the time you need,” Bertholdt cuts in, and when I glance over at him, his head is resting on Reiner’s shoulder, a look of wistfulness apparent in his eyes.

 

“Uh,” I respond, “okay.” _So eloquent. Wow. Slow clap for you, Jean._

 

“Just let us back in when we buzz, alright?” Marco asks, and Reiner nods back at him.

 

“You got it, dude.”

 

Marco opens up the door and lets me walk out first, but my movements are hazy and everything seems to happen in slow motion, so when I stumble, he’s quick to follow me. His hand finds my arm and he steadies my wobbling legs. I lean into his touch, especially as we walk down the stairs because my head is kind of spinning and Marco’s the only thing keeping me on the ground.

 

“You okay?” Marco asks softly as we approach the front door.

 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He opens the door for me again and I watch my step as I lead the way down the stairs, off the stoop and onto the sidewalk. I hear the door click shut and before I know it, Marco is at my side again.

 

Without thinking, I reach for Marco’s hand. It’s almost like he was waiting for me to take it when his fingers lace through the spaces between mine. We don’t say a word. We just walk.

 

We’re at the end of the sidewalk before too long, and instead of turning back around, we keep moving forward. Marco starts to whistle, and I recognize the song, but I can’t place the name.

 

“That song,” I say, “you’ve played it before, right? In the dorm room.”

 

He stops whistling and glances down at me once before returning his gaze to the empty, darkened street before us. “It’s one of my favorites.”

 

Right as I’m about to ask him what the name is, I stub the end of my shoe on an uneven break in the pavement, lurching me forward and toppling me over… Well, _nearly_ toppling me over.

 

“Woah!” Marco exclaims, and before I get too close to the ground, I feel his hands grab me and straighten me out. One keeps a tight grip on my hand while the other reaches for my waist; as he pulls me back, I bump up against his chest – but instead of moving, I stand there a moment, slowly starting to realize that as much as I try and be the one who looks out for Marco, it’s always going to be the other way around. _He_ keeps _me_ safe _._

 

After what I know for a fact has been too long, I pull away and run a hand through my hair. “Ah, sorry,” I say. But just as I’m about to keep walking ahead without him, Marco takes _my_ hand. My heart beats faster and the fogginess in my mind thickens.

 

“It’s snowing,” Marco says off-handedly – and this statement is enough to bring me back, even if it's just a little.

 

“That’s what I wanted to show you earlier,” I tell him, then stick my tongue out to catch a fleck. I’ve been so preoccupied with the proximity between Marco and me that I haven’t noticed our surroundings at all. The pavement. The snow. All that seems to matter right now is Marco’s hand in mine.

 

“I’m excited to meet your family,” I tell him. He looks over at me but says nothing. “I’m excited to meet your mom and Angelo, and to spend Christmas with you.”

 

He looks up at the sky and my heart now beats furiously. I feel like I’m confessing, even if I’m not, but the words come easier when my lips are numb.

 

I keep talking as we walk around a cul-de-sac and turn back around the way we came. “I hope it snows like this on Christmas. I hate it when on Christmas Day, you don’t get snow, and all you see is a back yard full of wet grass and patchy snow clumps.”

 

Beside me, Marco laughs. “I know what you mean.” There’s a pause, and I feel his eyes on me briefly. “But I have a good feeling about it this year.”

 

“Yeah?” I ask.

 

He nods. “Mmhmm. I have a feeling it’s going to be a white Christmas this time around.”

 

I guess we didn’t get too far. We walked a few blocks but not much more – and I realize we’ve almost come full circle when Marco tells me to watch my step on the upturned cement I tripped on before. From our current position, the flickering light on Sasha’s building glows on and off in the darkness, and I look over at Marco.

 

He looks back at me.

 

“I don’t want to go inside,” I tell him.

 

Marco smiles. “It’s cold out here, though.”

 

I squeeze his hand a little as our pace slows and I look back down at my shoes. “I don’t mind,” I say, then let my eyes flicker to the place where his hand meets mine. “You’re warm enough.”

 

Marco goes silent. Before we make it to the stoop steps, my feet slow so much that eventually, we stop walking. It seems to startle Marco, and when he looks back at me, his face is full of concern.

 

“Jean, are you alright?”

 

He must have asked me this a hundred times tonight. Or, twice. Whatever. This question sounds too familiar in his mouth. I don’t let go of his hand. I don’t move a muscle – not until Marco takes a step closer and looks down at me.

 

 _We’re so close,_ I think, and it reminds me of the way things were on our subway ride home from the bowling alley. Things are different now, though. There’s a sudden tension in the air, and it only gets worse when I move my eyes upward, slowly trailing up his body until our eyes lock and my jaw tightens.

 

“Marco,” I start to say, but I don’t know what I mean. All I know is that I need to get rid of the sinking feeling in my chest and there’s only one way I can think of to do it.

 

“Yes?” Marco asks – and I watch as he leans a little closer. His eyelids are halfway closed and I can see his freckles, closer now than they’ve ever been.

 

The snow gusts and a flake lands on his cheek. For some reason, it makes me smile and I lift a hand upward, brushing it away with my thumb.

 

“There was a snowflake,” I say. My tongue is numb so the words come slow. I know I should move my hand from his cheek – I _know_ it – but I can’t force it away. I keep it there, my palm curved against the shape of his jaw, and my fingertips feel for the nape of his neck.

 

Our breath rises in the air and I take one last deep breath – and then it hitches.

 

My lips are suddenly on Marco’s and I can’t stop myself. His are cold, but not as cold as mine. The grip I have on Marco’s hand tightens and – though it might just be my imagination – he seems to grip back just as tight. I can’t move my mouth; I’m frozen in place. That knot, which has been tied for so long in the pit of my stomach, seems to unravel like it was only ever a loose thread.

 

When I pull away, I feel strange. I can’t tell if I’ve done the right thing, but I’ve probably fucked it all up. It’s all I ever seem to do anyway.

 

I don’t want to let go of Marco’s hand. I don’t want to, but I have to, because something inside of me has shifted and things aren’t the same as they were before.

 

“Jean,” Marco starts – but I have a feeling in the way he says it that he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.

 

I shake my head. _Don’t say it._

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I sputter, and start off toward the front door. I hit the buzzer so many times I can’t even count, and Marco’s footsteps sound behind me, slowing until they come to a complete stop. He’s silent. I start fantasizing about tossing myself off Sasha’s balcony all over again.

 

I can’t meet his eyes. I’m like a child standing in front of him, scared that he’ll hate me, scared that I’ve done something unforgiveable… I shove my hands in my pockets.

 

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

 

“It’s okay,” Marco replies, but his voice sounds strange.

 

Then, just as the front door buzzes, I catch Marco bringing his fingertips to his lips. I notice the blush on his cheeks that blurs his freckles and stains the tips of his ears.

 

I wonder what could be going on in his head, but I’m too shaken to speak. We walk inside without another word, dragging our feet up the steps with an uneasy silence building between us.

 

A storm is coming… and it’s all my fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do believe another cookie is in order. //grabs the entire jar// YOU get a cookie. And YOU get a cookie. Everyone look under your seats! You all get cookies! Thanks for making it all the way to the end. God rest your weary soul.


	11. anywhere but here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for an emotional roller coaster.
> 
> Also, [listen to this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlMBcTGJ4YM) while reading the scene where Reiner and Bertholdt are driving Jean and Marco back to the dorms. (;

I can’t sleep.

 

Laying on the floor of Sasha’s apartment with a pillow and small blanket that I’m sharing with Armin, I can’t seem to fall asleep. I look around the living room at everyone else sleeping soundly, soft snores filling the silence in the room. Reiner and Bertholdt are snuggled up on the couch, Bertholdt on top with his legs dangling over the arm; Jean is occupying a reclining chair in the corner by the TV, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open; Armin is beside me, curled into fetal position, quietly smacking his lips together every now and then, and as far as I’m aware, Sasha and Connie are in her room. Everyone else managed to make it home earlier, though they didn’t drive.

 

My eyes roam up to the ceiling fan and I watch it for a few minutes, trying to keep my eyes on one single blade as it moves in circles endlessly. Somehow, it’s not long before I’m thinking about Jean again. Holding his hand, having him leaning against me, leaning up to kiss me…

 

A warmth spreads throughout my body; my chest feels light and my stomach flips and my cheeks are blushing brightly in the darkness. Slowly, I reach my fingers up to touch my lips, where only a few hours ago, his had been. They feel like they’re on fire, but it feels so good and I never want the feeling to go away.

 

I close my eyes and try to rewind my memories back to that moment. Him saying my name so softly, then him leaning up to meet me in a firm kiss. His lips had been so cold, but his hand in mine was so warm that I hadn’t minded in the least. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, trying to remember more – his scent, how it felt to have our noses touching, the way his fingers curled with mine and how he tried to keep me so close.

 

When I open my eyes again, I have to blink away the tears. I know that he was drunk and that he doesn’t feel that way about me at all. We’re best friends, and _only_ best friends.

 

It was pretty obvious in the way that he avoided eye contact with me for the rest of the party afterward. He busied himself talking to anyone but me, staying arms length away if we were having to sit next to each other. Then, when everyone tried to figure out sleeping arrangements, instead of sleeping beside me, he took the recliner chair and left me to sleep beside Armin.

 

 _If he really like-liked you, he wouldn’t have looked so scared when he pulled away,_ my mind tells me harshly whenever he would accidentally touch my arm with his and then pull away as if he’d been burned. _He wouldn’t be so awkward sitting next to you, either._

 

I whimper quietly, turning away from Armin to curl myself up, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. Knowing that Jean didn’t mean it and that he probably won’t remember it when he wakes up later makes the warm feeling in my chest disappear and I’m left feeling empty and heartbroken.

* * *

“Marco?” I slowly open my eyes as I feel a hand on my shoulder shaking it. “Marco, wake up.”

  
I squint against the light room and roll over, looking above me to see Bertholdt. He gives me a wry smile, dark circles under his eyes, and helps me as I slowly get to my feet.

 

“We’re going to be leaving soon,” he explains, picking up the pillow from the floor and setting it on the couch. “But we figured you might want something to eat before we go.”

 

I nod slowly, even though I don’t feel very hungry. My eyes wander to the reclining chair, feeling my stomach sink when I see that it’s empty. Jean is already awake.

 

I follow Bertholdt to the kitchen, where everyone is sitting and looking ill. Sasha and Connie are both sitting at the table, slowly eating a bowl of cereal quietly; Sasha’s hair is a mess on top of her head and she’s got yesterday’s make up caked under her eyes. Connie’s eyes look dead. Beside them is Reiner, who is reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee. Then, my eyes find Jean, hunched over in his seat, pushing cereal around in the bowl, but not really bothering to eat it. He looks the worst, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair a complete mess.

 

Seeing him sends a painful pang to my heart. I ignore it and decide to take the seat next to him, pouring some marshmallow type cereal into my bowl and adding milk.

 

“Morning, Jean,” I say in the happiest voice I can muster, trying to get over the awkward weirdness between us. Sasha and Connie give me a dirty look for talking too loud and I give them an apologetic smile. “Where’s Armin?”

 

“Eren and Mikasa picked him up earlier this morning,” Reiner explains as he turns the page of the newspaper he’s holding. “He got sick around 6 this morning and called them.”

 

“Poor Armin.” I frown, feeling sorry for him. I take out my phone to send him a quick text, telling him to get better soon.

 

Jean is staring at me as I put my phone back into my pocket. I look back at him and he smiles a bit, though he kind of looks more like he’s grimacing. He turns away after a moment to eat a little more of his breakfast, but gives up pretty quickly, pushing the bowl away from him and opting to put his head down on the table.

 

Bertholdt cleans up a little around the kitchen, putting everything away when everyone finishes eating. Sasha grumbles something about making sure to lock the door on our way out before retiring to the couch to sleep her hangover off. Connie barely manages to make it out of the kitchen at all, laying face down on the carpet in the living room.

 

Reiner shakes his head a little, folding the newspaper back up. “You guys ready to go back to the dorm?” he asks me and Jean.

 

I nod and Jean meekly does, too, slowly lifting his head from the table. I help him as he starts to stumble over one of the chairs, and he looks up at me in thanks, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

 

We pull our shoes on at the door and we pull our coats on. I help Jean with his because he seems to be struggling with simple tasks this morning, and he laughs a little when his arm gets stuck in the sleeve because it was rolled up near the elbow part.

 

“I’m a hot mess,” he finally says as we manage to get his arm all the way through. “Sorry, Marco.”

 

I laugh, too, nodding. “You need more sleep,” I tell him and I can’t help but ruffle his hair in the back that’s sticking up. “You’ve got horrible bedhead.”

 

And just like that, we’re back to normal.

 

I decide to pretend like nothing happened, because it’s clear that he doesn’t remember most of his actions from last night. Even if it hurts my heart more to ignore it, I do my best to act normal around him. It was a mistake – a drunken mistake that he doesn’t even remember. So there’s no point on dwelling on it.

 

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

 

Bertholdt leads us back to the car, unlocking it and cranking the heat as soon as we get in. For the first few minutes of the drive, it blows cold air at us, making it even worse. Jean and I sit in the back, holding ourselves tightly, shivering.

 

As he starts driving, the car slowly warms up. Reiner picks out music, scrolling through his iPod and connecting it to the stereo before pressing play. Weird music fills our ears, sounding like a deranged circus a little at first. Jean and I exchange a wary glance at each other. The stereo reads AVENGED SEVENFOLD – A LITTLE PIECE OF HEAVEN as the song plays on with some… strange lyrics. Reiner seems to know them all, nodding his head to the song and singing along.

 

“Definitely was not what I was expecting,” Jean says to me quietly and I can’t help but nod in agreement.

 

Bertholdt and Reiner hold hands in the middle console as we drive. I can’t help feeling envious of them and how much they love and care for each other openly. I chance a sideways glance at Jean but he’s looking out the window. I can’t help but think what would be different if Jean liked guys. Would he like me? Would I be good enough for him to like at all?

 

My heart hurts again and I gently put a hand against it, trying to calm down. It doesn’t do any good for me to think about this and I know it all too well. But I can’t help it.

 

The song ends just as we’re turning back onto campus. Reiner’s iPod shuffles and the next song starts to play.

 

_“Elphaba, why couldn’t you have stayed calm for once, instead of flying off the handle?”_

 

“Oh shit!” Reiner says, breaking his hand holding with Bertholdt to grab his iPod. By the time he manages to pause the song and look back at us, it had turned to singing rather than back and forth shouting about being happy. He gives a little laugh and says, “Sorry, guys. Guilty pleasure.”

 

“What the fuck was that?” Jean says and he’s about to start laughing. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing, too. Bertholdt even looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

 

“Reiner really loves Broadway,” Bertholdt explains as he turns the car to park near our dorms. “ _Wicked_ was his favorite.”

 

“Just listen to the song, okay?” Reiner says, pressing play again. “It’s a great song! I swear!”

 

He turns the volume up, forgetting that Jean’s still nursing a hangover, as Bertholdt parks the car in a nearby parking garage. We sit in the car, listening as the song builds to a crescendo loudly from the speakers behind us.

 

_“It’s time to try defying gravity. I think I’ll try defying gravity! And you can’t pull me down!”_

 

Jean and I can’t help but start laughing from our seats. Reiner sings along loudly, knowing all the words from both the characters. What’s even more surprising is when he hits all the high notes fairly well, though at one point, his voice does break. It only makes us laugh harder, and as the song slowly comes down to more talk between the characters, Jean and I are wiping tears from our eyes.

 

Bertholdt is covering his face, his shoulders shaking as he laughs with us.

 

“God, I’m out of here!” Jean shouts but Reiner, still singing, locks the door from up front. “Reiner! Let me out! I don’t want to be apart of your guilty pleasures!”

 

I double over, holding my stomach from laughing so hard, and rest my head against Reiner’s seat in front of me.

 

“Not until it’s over!” Reiner shouts before going right back into the intense singing.

 

“Is this thing child locked?” I ask, my voice lost in the Broadway musical singing, trying to open my door as well. Even after pulling the lock up, it still won’t budge.

 

“IT’S ALMOST OVER JUST LET ME OUT!” Jean has to scream to be heard over the music now. I glance out the window, seeing a few people walking to their cars in the garage giving us a strange look. “REINER! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!”

 

“It’s not over til I say it’s over!” Reiner shouts back teasingly.

 

We sit through a whole six minutes of the song before it (finally) comes to an end. Then, and only then, does Reiner hit the unlock button. Jean practically flies out of the car, scared that he’ll have to sit through even more musicals if he doesn’t get out. I get out next, laughing and coming around to the back of the car as Bertholdt turns it off.

 

The gays get out of the car next, locking it, as the four of us head back to the dorms. Reiner puts Jean in an arm lock as we walk and asks him, “So, you like my music? Want me to take you out to see a play, Jean?”

 

“Hell no!” Jean replies, shoving him off. Reiner laughs and moves back to Bertholdt’s side, taking his hand; I watch as Bertholdt intertwines their fingers, giving his boyfriend a loving smile. Jean makes a fake gagging face at me as we walk ahead, letting them have their moment.

 

We take the stairs down quickly, cross a street and head into the dormitory building. We each wave at Petra, the nice attendant at the front desk, and she’s accompanied by a few of her friends. That short, dark haired guy who I now know is a Senior here and is named Levi is standing there again, making her giggle. Beside him is Zoe, who gives me a big, enthusiastic wave in my direction.

 

I return it just as the elevator doors open and both Jean and I step inside, hitting the number 4. We see Reiner and Bertholdt finally making their way into the dorm building and they stay on the first floor, heading down the hall way toward Bertholdt’s room.

 

Jean pulls out his phone when it starts to vibrate from his pocket. He sighs and I glance over, seeing DAD written at the top with a picture of an older man as the background. He slides the bar and holds it up to his ear.

 

“Hello?” he says and pauses as his father says something to him. “Yeah, we’re at the dorms now. When should we be ready?” Another pause and we step off the elevator, walk down the hall to our room, and I fish out my key from my pocket, unlocking the door. “I’m sure we’ll be ready in an hour… Okay. Bye.”

 

He hangs up as the door to our dorm falls shut behind us. “We have to be downstairs with our shit in an hour,” he explains with a shrug. “I’m gonna shower while you pack, then we can switch. Okay?”

 

“Sure,” I reply, heading to our room and reaching under my bed for my suitcase that I first came to Trost University carrying. Jean grabs a towel and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door.

 

Alone for the first time since last night, I let out a large gust of air and sit down on my bed. Pretending like I’m okay and that nothing happened last night is exhausting me. I lay down on my bed and close my eyes, wishing that I had a little more time so I could take a nap. Maybe if I slept for a year, I wouldn’t have to be so heartbroken anymore.

 

 _Stop being so dramatic,_ I tell myself in an attempt to get myself moving again. _Yeah, so what? Jean doesn’t like you. Even if he_ did _like guys, you would not be his first choice. Why? Because you’re ordinary and plain and nothing special. And Jean is… he’s wonderful and talented and funny._

 

I grab at my hair in frustration and put my pillow over my face, screaming into it loudly. After a moment, I relax all my muscles and just sit for a moment, not thinking about anything.

 

Once I’m composed, I get up and pop the suitcase open and neatly fold clothes from my wardrobe up and place them inside. I bring a few outfits, since I’ll be gone for almost a month, but I won’t need _too_ many since most of the break will be spent at my house in Jinae and I’ve still got plenty of clothes there. By the time I’m shutting the suitcase and setting it down on the floor, Jean walks out of the bathroom with his toothbrush dangling from between his lips, a towel around his waist and his hair dripping water down his chest.

 

I swallow hard, unable to look away for a moment, as my eyes trail after one water drop as it moves down his taut back muscles, between his shoulder blades which jut out just slightly so, and down further… all the way until it disappears under the towel. My cheeks heat up as he opens his wardrobe, his back still facing me, and he takes the toothbrush from his mouth.

 

“How much clothes did you pack?” he asks, his mouth full of toothpaste and muffling the question a bit.

 

“U-uh, just a couple of, um, jeans and sweaters.”

 

He turns around and sees what I’m sure is my very red face. “You okay?”

 

“Y-yeah!” I lie and grab my towel. “I’m gonna shower now!”

 

I rush into the bathroom before he can reply and shut the door, locking it. Leaning heavily against it, I mentally punch myself in the face. _You can’t look at him like that!_

 

I turn the shower on and strip off my clothes, taking a quick shower. I wash my hair good, my face and body and just sit in the warm water for a few minutes, trying my best not to picture Jean naked. Once I’m sure that I can behave for the rest of the day, I get out and wrap a towel around my waist. I brush my teeth in the bathroom and pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs in the middle so I don’t get a unibrow over break. Then, I slowly open the door and head out to grab some clean clothes to change into.

 

Jean’s made a mess of the entire dorm. His clothes are laying everywhere – his bed, my bed, the floor, the desk – and he’s standing in the middle of the room with his hand gently tapping his chin in deep thought. He’s wearing clothes, though, and I’m relieved for that.

 

“What happened in here?” I ask, coming up behind him to get to my wardrobe. He glances at me and then back, quickly, looking flushed. I quirk an eyebrow but don’t ask any questions, because anything awkward could ruin everything. “It looks like a hurricane of clothes.”

 

“I’m trying to decide…” he trails off, as if wondering if it’s okay to tell me. “I just really wanna impress your mom, okay? I don’t know what kind of clothes to bring.”

 

I pull a t-shirt over my head and look at him. He’s still not facing me and I can tell it’s because he’s embarrassed to have admitted that to me. I smile, blushing a little again, before pulling on fresh boxers and some jeans.

 

“Just dress how you normally would,” I tell him, tossing my dirty clothes and towel into the hamper by my bed. “My mom will love you, Jean. Honest.”

 

Finally, he turns around to face me, and I take note that his cheeks are still slightly pink. “Are you sure? Because at first, even you probably thought that I was a dick…” he bites his lip as he thinks for a moment. “I really don’t want to screw this up.”

 

“Jean, you’re my best friend, not my husband,” I clarify with a laugh.

 

He looks… hurt? Sad? What emotion crosses his features for a moment, before he’s shielding it with a laugh of his own?

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re right! I’m thinking too hard about it, aren’t I?”

 

I smile and walk over to one of his blue sweaters, which is my favorite, and picked it up. “Bring this, she loves the color blue, and this shirt is always a good choice, plus it’s comfy,” I tell him, picking up various articles of clothing from around the room and handing them to him. “And hey, isn’t that my shirt?”

 

Jean laughs nervously and picks it up. “Yeah, sorry. I stole it last week when I ran out of clean laundry. You can have it back, if you want.”

 

My stomach twists; my heart is beating so hard at the thought of Jean wearing one of _my_ shirts that I’m surprised he can’t hear it from where he stands. I swallow once, twice, three times because my mouth is suddenly so dry.

 

“No,” I finally tell him, “you keep it.”

 

Jean smiles down at the shirt and puts it in his other hand, along with the other clothes I handed to him. “Thanks,” he says, his cheeks pink again. “I’ll bring it with me, in case you change your mind.”

 

I smile, too, and help him fold his clothes to put away in his suitcase. Once we’re both all packed and ready, we pull our bags out to the hallway and get our shoes and jackets on to head outside. Before we leave, though, I make sure that Jean cleans up all of his clothes so we don’t have to return to a huge mess in January. He grumbles and complains but does quickly clean up. We even leave a note for the boyfriends, wishing them happy holidays and a happy new year.

 

We haul our suitcases to the elevator and Jean sends a quick text to his dad, letting him know that we’re on our way down. We head outside, offering another wave to Petra, who returns it calling out, “Have a good break!”

 

Outside, the air is cold against our still damp hair. I burrow into my jacket, trying to keep as warm as possible, as I follow Jean down the walkway and toward the parking lot that’s around the corner from the Recreational Center.

 

Jean walks right up to a sleek black car. The driver gets out, wearing a suit and tie, and takes our luggage for us, putting them into the trunk. Jean gets into the backseat, sliding over to the other side, and I follow suit, shutting the door behind me. Inside, the leather seats are heated and the whole car smells brand new.

 

“Is… that your dad?” I whisper, eyeing the driver a bit incredulously.

 

“No, my dad’s in a meeting right now. He sent a driver to come get us and take us back to my house. My parents won’t be home until dinner time,” Jean explains with a shrug.

 

It’s so surreal to me. For Jean to go home, his parents literally hire a driver to come pick him up. When I go home, I have to take a train ride that lasts 4 hours, and from the train station, I take the local bus back to my neighborhood and walk the rest of the way. The only car we have in our family (which was mostly mine when I was still at home) is Mom’s. And it’s a miracle the thing is still running, honestly.

 

I don’t know what I expect as we drive through the busy streets of Trost. I try to imagine what Jean’s house will look like – probably a huge mansion – but it’s difficult because Jean is such a minimalist at school. The dorm room has bare minimums from him – some clothes, his school stuff, a sketch pad and a movie collection. That’s all he brought with him.

 

“Where do you live?” I ask him, tearing my eyes from the window to look at him.

 

“Like 20 minutes away,” he replies. “Well, 35 in this traffic. Usually it only takes 20, though.”

 

If he hadn’t told me about how unwanted he felt at home, I probably would have asked why he was living on campus if he lived so close already.

 

As the car comes to a stop in front of a large house (though not quite a mansion, it is still huge), I notice that Jean looks like he’s going to be sick. I reach over and hold his hand, and realize that this isn’t something I should be doing. But he turns his wrist over and holds my hand back, looking from his house to me and giving me a small, dry smile.

 

“Let’s go,” I tell him encouragingly.

 

He nods slowly and we get out of the car and thank the driver as he sets out luggage out on the pavement for us. We each take our suitcases and I follow Jean up the walkway, staying close to his side. He opens the door and we both step in, letting it shut behind us.

 

The front room has a huge staircase to my left, and what looks like a sitting room with a fireplace and several comfortable looking couches. To my right is a dining room with a huge chandelier light made of glass. Just seeing these three rooms, I already know that’s probably bigger than the size of my house.

 

“I’ll show you around,” Jean tells me. We leave our stuff at the door and remove our shoes and jackets, putting them up on the hangers and shoe rack by the door. I follow him down the hall and we enter the kitchen. It’s _huge_ with another dining table by the back doors, which through the glass, I can tell has a pool outside. “Want anything to drink?”

 

“Uh, sure,” I reply dumbly, awe-struck by how nice his house is. He goes to the fridge and pulls out a couple water bottles, tossing one to me, which I barely manage to catch, before leaning against the island counters. “You have a really nice house.”

 

“Yeah, I told you my parents are loaded,” Jean responds with a shrug of his shoulders. “So, the living room is over there and the ‘entertaining’ dining room is over there. They only use that when they have friends over for drinks on Friday nights.”

 

I nod and he leads me back through the hall and toward the stairs.

 

We grab our suitcases and drag them upstairs to the second floor of the house, which is just as amazing as the first. He nods to double doors that are pulled shut and says, “That’s my parents room.” He moves from there to each door, opening them so I could see inside.

 

There’s a girl’s bedroom, and I think that it must belong to his sister. It’s decorated in purple and pink hues with lots of medals on a shelf. The next is a bathroom that looks like a picture from right a catalogue, and then after that he opens the door to his bedroom.

 

He steps inside and I follow, looking around. There’s a double bed in the corner, a dresser across from it and a small corner desk with a lamp on it. That’s it. No posters on the off-white colored walls, no curtains over the single window that’s over the desk, and nothing on top of his dresser. It looks more like a guest bedroom.

 

“You don’t have any pictures or posters or anything?” I ask, looking around as he sets his suitcase on top of his bed. It’s just so… plain and empty.

 

“No,” he replies, not looking at me. “I don’t feel at home when I’m here. I never did. That’s why… it doesn’t matter.”

 

My eyes find him now, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking defeated.

 

“Hey,” I say, getting his attention, “it does matter.”

 

Jean gives me a small, sad smile and I come over to sit next to him. I put an arm around his shoulders in what I hope is a comforting manner, and he leans into it, closing his eyes for a moment. I notice how dark they are from lack of sleep last night, and looking down at him from this angle, I can see how pointed his nose is.

 

“It feels more like home this time,” he says quietly, not looking at me but instead choosing to focus his attention on his fingers, picking at a hang nail on his left hand, “because you’re here, too.”

 

My heart starts to beat really fast and I know that he can hear it. But I don’t pull away, because right now, Jean needs me. I squeeze his shoulder comfortingly.

 

“That’s how I feel when we’re at the dorms, too,” I tell him and now, he does look up at me, our eyes meeting for what feels like the first time in a long time. Since before the kiss last night. “It wasn’t home for me until we were friends.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really, really,” I tell him, removing my arm to bump his shoulder with mine.

 

He smiles, hearing this, and we sit together on his bed for just a minute longer. He stands and motions for me to follow him, so I do. He leads me to the next room, opening the door to a room with a twin bed and a desk with a pot of flowers on it.

 

“This is your room,” he explains as I pull my suitcase inside and set it down in the middle of the room. “Sorry it’s kinda small, but we’re only here for two nights, anyway.”

 

“This is still bigger than my room back home,” I reply with a laugh. “It’s fine. Thanks, Jean.”

* * *

With several hours to kill before Jean’s parents are expected to be home for dinner, we decide to just laze around and not think about anything too hard. We stay in Jean’s room, sprawled across his bed, taking turns playing a stupid game called Cowabunga on his iPhone. He’s got music playing, too, using his headphones and we each have one in our ears.

 

“I fucking quit,” he sighs when he sees that I have, once again, beaten his high score. “You’ve never even played this game before today and you still whoop my ass!”

 

I can’t help but laugh as I hand his phone back to him for him to play the next round. “Maybe I’ve got a natural talent for cow saving.”

 

“You should look into that for a future occupation,” he replies sarcastically as he starts another game. I grin and lean closer, watching as he slides his finger along the screen to save each cow from drowning. “Fuck! I already lost one!”

 

I laugh as he grumbles and complains about the game being stupid. He continues to play until he reaches 78 cows saved, but then loses it when there are 6 cows trying to get across the river and he can’t move the raft fast enough. When he loses without beating my previous score, he groans and just lets his phone fall onto the bed between us, giving up completely.

 

“Man I’m tired as fuck,” he complains through a yawn, stretching out his arms and legs. “We should just sleep for a year.”

 

He rolls over so he’s on his side, facing me, and opens one eye to look up at me. I adjust myself so we’re the same height on the pillow and turn so I’m on my side, facing him as well. He smiles sleepily and lets his eyes droop closed.

 

I watch him for a moment as his breathing evens out and soft snores escape from his mouth every so often. I slowly reach out a hand to push his hair back from his forehead, before letting my arm drop back to my side. Seeing him so close reminds me of when I was hungover and he took care of me.

 

After a little bit, I let my eyes close, too, and I allow myself to fall asleep beside Jean. 

* * *

It’s nearly six o’clock in the evening when I finally wake up.  I sigh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before slowly peeking them open. Jean’s still beside me, laying on his back and snoring; somehow, one of my legs ended up stretched out across his lower stomach and my head is using his arm as my pillow. My heart thumps painfully in my chest as I pull myself away slowly, trying not to wake him up.

 

“Nooooo,” he whimpers, rolling over and wrapping his arms around my head and pulling me straight into his chest. I inhale sharply, surprised by his sudden action and (accidentally) taking in his wonderful scent, before trying to move away again. “Marcooooooo.”

 

I freeze and peer up at him through my eyelashes. He’s smiling softly now, but still completely asleep. His arms tighten around me, holding me flush against him and not minding that my leg is now hiked up over him completely and dangling off the edge of the bed.

 

Slowly, I let myself close my eyes and relax my body. Jean’s fingers grip my shirt tightly, pulling it into fists, as if I’m going to disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight. I move my arm that isn’t trapped under my body to wrap around his middle, embracing him just as tightly, his breathing evens out again and turns to soft snores. I can hear his heart beating steadily in his chest.

 

I wish that I could just freeze time and stay like this forever.

 

But it’s right at this moment (of course) that I hear the front door downstairs open and close. There are voices talking, but it’s too distant and I can’t make out what they’re saying to each other.

 

“Jean,” I whisper, retracting my arm from around him to shake his shoulder a little. “Jean, wake up.”

 

“Mmm?” Jean mumbles, opening one eye half-way, still clearly half in his dream world.

 

“I think your parents are home,” I tell him, my voice still a whisper.

 

This seems to grab his attention and he opens his other eye, now fully awake. He looks at how he’s holding me and slowly retracts his arms, his cheeks turning pink and his eyes going wide.

 

“S-sorry!” he says as we both manage to sit up on the bed.

 

“It’s okay,” I tell him with a small smile. “Should we go downstairs and greet them?”

 

Jean frowns deeply and sighs. “Yeah, I guess we should.”

 

He stands up and stretches his arms over his head. I notice that his shirt rides up a little, revealing some of his tan skin, before it disappears and his arms are back at his side. I tell myself to stop being weird or he’ll notice.

 

I follow him out of his room and down the stairs. He looks around before heading for the kitchen and I trail after him, still awe-struck by their huge house. He pauses in the doorway and clears his throat, making both of his parents look up.

 

Jean takes after his father. Mr. Kirschtein is tall with a slightly round belly and a long face with sharp, prominent features. His eyes are dark, though, unlike Jean’s, and his eyebrows are thicker, curved upward more so, giving him an almost angry and mean expression. Mrs. Kirschtein, being Jean’s step-mother, doesn’t look anything like him. But she does look familiar for a moment, until I remember that she looks like Jean’s sister in the picture he drew of her on her wedding day. She’s a short, lithe woman with dark eyes sunken back a bit and dark circles under her eyes. She’s got dark hair pulled up in a tight, neat bun, that sort of pulls her forehead back, too. She looks scary.

 

“This is my friend, Marco,” Jean says, motioning to me. I lift a hand shyly to wave, squeaking out a, “Hello.”

 

“Hello, Marco,” Mr. Kirschtein replies in a gruff voice. “Did you show him to the guest bedroom already?”

 

“I put fresh sheets down yesterday,” Mrs. Kirschtein adds, flashing me a small smile, but it looks forced and it makes me feel uncomfortable.

 

“Yeah, his stuff is already settled up there,” Jean tells them.

 

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I say politely. “Is there anything I can help with for dinner?” Jean elbows me in the side, but I swear I can see his father smile a little when I ask. I do it, not because I expect them to say yes, but because Mom always taught me to ask, just in case.

 

“No, thank you, Marco,” Mrs. Kirschtein finally says. “You’re our guest, so you just worry about relaxing away from school. That was very kind of you to offer, though.”

 

“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.” Mr. Kirschtein is looking inside the fridge now, his face no longer visible to us. “Go get dressed and washed up.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Then, Jean is grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the kitchen and back upstairs to his room. I watch him as he opens his dresser, pulling out a few nice shirts and ties. He hands me a white button-up shirt and a green tie with a pull-over sweater to match; for himself, he’s grabbed a nice shirt and blazer to go over top.

 

I hold the clothes up questioningly.

 

“We dress up for dinner,” he replies dryly. “I didn’t want you to pack extra clothes that you would only wear like, once. So you can just borrow some of mine.”

 

“Oh,” I say a bit dumbly. “Okay.”

 

I go next door to the spare room where my stuff is and change quickly, pulling the shirt over my head. I change into a nicer, tan pants instead of the faded blue jeans that I had been wearing, and walk back to Jean’s room as I’m struggling to tie the tie. I’ve never been good with them, because even Mom didn’t really know how to tie them properly.

 

I sigh frustrated, as I step back into his room as he’s pulling the blazer jacket over his shirt.

 

“What’s up?” he asks, having heard me sigh irritably.

 

“I just…” I let my hands drop to my sides, the tie crooked and obviously tied incorrectly. “I’m not used to wearing ties. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

Jean smiles, clearly amused with my lack of tie knowledge, and walks over so he’s standing directly in front of me. He unties the knot that I made and starts over from scratch; his slender fingers slowly loop the tie and pull it through, shifting it around as he does.

 

We’re so close. His hair is tickling my nose and I have to bite my lip because I keep having these urges to reach out and kiss his forehead. His scent fills my senses again and it’s all I can do _not_ to tackle him and kiss him, right then and there. But I don’t, because I know that Jean has no idea what happened last night and he has no idea what he was doing. Even if, by some miracle, Jean did like guys… I was his best friend, and he wouldn’t want to chance ruining that.

 

As his fingers work on the tie around my neck, I feel my breathing hitch and I hope that he doesn’t notice. My broken heart thumps dully inside my chest, giving up on the excitement of being so close, because it just hurts so much. It’s so painful to be so close, and know that this is all I’ll ever get.

 

Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all was wrong. I wish I didn’t have to feel this way.

 

“There,” Jean says, tightening it slowly and straightening it out for me. His fingers brush against my neck on accident and our eyes meet, both of us pulling away. My skin feels like it’s on fire where his fingers had touched me; I wonder for a moment if he felt that, too.

 

“Thanks,” I tell him, giving him my best smile, but it’s forced.

 

We stand awkwardly in his room for a few minutes longer, neither of us looking at each other. My face feels hot and flustered, and I’m sure that I’m blushing. It doesn’t matter, though, because he isn’t looking at me, anyway; his eyes are staring at the far wall.

 

Finally, he clears his throat and scratches his head, our eyes meeting briefly before flitting away nervously again.

 

“S-so let’s go get this over with,” he says and I nod. We head downstairs and to the kitchen again, where Mrs. Kirschtein is putting out the food. They made grilled chicken with vegetables and potatoes and it smells really good. My stomach growls as we take our seats next to each other at the table.

 

“Thank you for the meal,” I tell them politely as they each sit down with a glass of wine.

 

Mrs. Kirschtein offers me a wry smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She sips her wine before she cuts into her chicken with her knife, a napkin spread across her lap. I follow suit and start to slowly eat, taking small bites and pausing to drink the water in front of me between every few bites.

 

“So, Marco,” Mr. Kirschtein says, looking at his food as he cuts the chicken into small pieces, “what are you studying over at Trost University?”

 

I swallow my food before answering. “Pre-med. I want to be a doctor.”

 

“Good, that’s a good field to go into these days. Your parents must be proud.”

 

“Ah, yes, they are,” I tell him, because I would feel rude correcting him that it’s just my mother.

 

“When Jean said he was bringing a friend home, we weren’t expecting for you to be so well-mannered,” Mrs. Kirschtein says as she carefully dabs at her mouth with her napkin.

 

“You should be looking up to your friend, Marco,” Mr. Kirschtein adds. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

 

From beside me, I can feel Jean tense up at this. I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see him angrily spear at a piece of chicken, shoving it into his mouth to avoid snapping. I swallow my nerves and take a drink of water before I get the courage to say anything.

 

“Jean is really great at art,” I blurt out a bit awkwardly, earning a weird look from both of his parents. I clear my throat and continue, “His drawings are amazing.”

 

“Talent only gets you so far in this world,” Mr. Kirschtein replies. Jean sets his silverware down a bit loudly, earning a cold look from his step-mother. “I tried to get Jean to go to law school and follow in my footsteps. He would have had it made. He could take over the firm. But of course, he’s not interested in that at all.”

 

It’s quiet for a few moments as we eat. From the corner of my eye, I see that Jean is clenching his fist under the table. I slowly reach a hand over and cover his fist with mine, trying to calm him down and comfort him the best that I can. He looks up at me and offers a small smile, but I can tell that he’s still stressed about the situation.

 

“So,” Mr. Kirschtein speaks again, breaking the silence, “since you’re so close to him, how about you tell us how he’s doing in school, because he hasn’t said a word all semester.”

 

Jean glares at his father. “You haven’t bothered to care enough to ask until right now,” he says, his voice angry and growing louder. “But to answer your question, I’m doing fantastic in school. Just great. Thanks.”

 

“Jean, calm down,” Mrs. Kirschtein warns, her tone cold and her words clipped.

 

Jean looks away from his parents, angry. I want to reach out for him, to tell him that I’m here, but I don’t. I’m stuck in my chair, looking down at my plate like a coward.

 

“Well, have you picked a major yet, Jean?” His father is looking at him now, an eyebrow raised high. “Because I’m not spending all that money for you to live there and get nothing done. It’s time for you to grow up and start getting your future together.”

 

“Just because I don’t want to be like you doesn’t mean that I don’t have my stuff together,” Jean says through clenched teeth. “I’m doing good in school, most parents would be happy to have that.”

 

“Jean,” his mother warns him again.

 

“Stop being a child,” Mr. Kirschtein says, his eyes narrowing as he sets his gaze on Jean. “Because you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, you want me to give you a pat on the back? Good job doing what most kids your age are doing? It’s time for you to realize that the world doesn’t revolve around you, Jean.”

 

Jean stands up so fast, the chair goes flying backwards. His face is red with anger, his fists clenched at his sides, and he’s breathing heavily as he stares down his father. I’m about to stand up and try to get him to sit back down, but his dad beats me to it and rises from his seat.

 

“Please,” Mrs. Kirschtein says, her hand now on her forehead, rubbing at her temples. “We have a _guest_.”

 

Jean’s father walks around the table and goes to the door that leads to the entertaining dining room Jean showed me earlier. He opens the door, watching Jean, and waiting until he finally follows him to the other room. The door shuts behind them, but I can still hear muffled voices. Then, after a few minutes, Jean is shouting but it’s hard to make out what he’s saying.

 

Feeling nervous and sad for him, I bite my lip and turn my attention to Mrs. Kirschtein. She’s sipping her wine again, ignoring the fight going on in the other room. I’m suddenly floored, because while Jean explained to me how he felt he was treated by his parents, I never imagined that it would be exactly how it was.

 

I turn my attention back to the door, now chewing the inside of my cheek as Jean’s shouting is quieted. I swallow nervously, waiting for it to blow over.

 

That’s when I hear it.

 

_Slap!_

 

There’s silence after. I feel my heart sputter for a second and my eyes go wide with realization. A second later, the door opens and Jean walks out, his cheek bright red, and he doesn’t look at me as he leaves the kitchen and rushes up the stairs two at a time.

 

“E-excuse me,” I stutter, setting my napkin down on the table and getting up from my seat. I follow after him, running upstairs. His bedroom door is opened a crack, and I slowly push it open to reveal him sitting on his bed in the dark.

 

I shut the door behind me and turn the light on. Jean brings his face out from behind his hands to look at me and he has tears in his eyes and a swollen welt forming on his cheek. My breath hitches in my throat as I approach him, my movements slow. I get down on my knees in front of him and he tries to look away from me, ashamed of what I saw.

 

“I’m sor—”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper softly. “That wasn’t your fault.”

 

He hangs his head, defeated, and sighs long and low.

 

“You don’t deserve that,” I tell him and he looks at me again and this time, our eyes meet. Seeing how sad and pained he is, my chest constricts and it’s hard to breathe. “Thank you for being so wonderful even if they don’t know it.”

 

He swallows and sniffles. Carefully, I reach my hand up and rest it against his swollen, red cheek. He winces at first, but after a moment, leans into my touch and closes his eyes. I rub my thumb over it, wishing that I could will it away for him. I’m sure that for him, the fact that his father hit him stings so much more than the actual slap did.

 

“Thank you,” I tell him, because I mean and he needs to hear it and know that even if his parents don’t understand how great he is, that I do. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

 

He leans down and I take this opportunity to wrap my arms around him and hold him against my chest. He doesn’t cry, but he comes close and just holds onto me tighter when he feels like he’s about to. I just hold him, rubbing soothing circles into his back, and let him calm down on his own.

 

For the second time today, my heart breaks.

* * *

After Jean starts to calm down, I go to the spare room and pull my suitcase back to his. We both change into pajamas, facing away from each other like we do at the dorm, and he smiles gratefully to me when I crawl into the bed beside him. I lay on my back with my arms behind my head and he’s curled over on his side, facing me.

 

“Marco?” he whispers through the darkness. I turn my head to look down at him, but I can only just barely make out his silhouette.

 

“Yeah?” I reply in an equally quiet whisper.

 

“Do you think it would be okay if we just leave tomorrow instead of staying another day?”

 

I frown. Mostly, it’s because I feel so sad for Jean. His parents didn’t seem like they cared at all – they didn’t see him the way I did. A wonderful, talented guy with artistic beauty and strength and courage.

 

Until I moved to Trost University and met him, I was depressed because Angelo was in the hospital and things were so bleak for me. But Jean… he made me see differently. The void that was left empty after Angelo’s accident was slowly being filled with Jean’s kind words, warm embraces, and shoulder to cry on when I needed it. He was one of a kind.

 

And his parents just didn’t see him the way that I do.

 

“If that’s what you want to do,” I tell him, looking back up at the ceiling.

 

I feel him nodding, his head brushing against my shoulder as he does. We’re both quiet for a minute or two as this is decided. Jean moves closer to me and I shift over so I can be closer to him, too.

 

“Sometimes, I feel like Eren was right.”

 

“What?” I ask, my eyebrows pulling together in confusion as I look down at him. Jean is picking at the shirt I’m wearing; a small thread has come undone on the sleeve of my old t-shirt and he twirls it around his finger a few times before plucking it out.

 

“Eren fucking Jaeger…” Jean sighs now and turns over so he’s on his back, too.

 

“What did he say?” I whisper, turning over onto my side and moving closer to him now.

 

“I’m just a bastard,” he practically spits it out with hate, his eyes turning glassy almost immediately, but I can see it in the darkness. “That’s what he fucking said. That I’m _just a fucking bastard child_.”

 

Seeing Jean so depressed and distressed, I have to look away. It’s too much for me to handle.

 

“You are not just a bastard child,” I tell him firmly, sitting up on the bed. He looks away, his nostrils flaring as he tries his best to keep him together. I grab his face and force him to look at me, because I don’t want him to hold himself together anymore. Not if I’m around to be there to tape him back together, good as new. “You are Jean Kirschtein, my best friend. Someone who is talented and wonderful and funny and smart. It’s not your fault that you were dealt a shit hand.  Your parents may not see you for who you really are and who you can be, but I do.”

 

He slowly sits up, crossing his legs under the blankets, so we’re eye-level.

 

“I do,” I tell him now, my voice breaking because I just want him to see himself the way that I see him. “Please don’t think so lowly of yourself. You may not become a lawyer like your dad, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough to be his son.”

 

He’s quiet for a long time, and I start to worry that maybe, I’ve crossed too many lines now. I watch as he picks at the hang nail on his finger again, biting his lip as he lets everything I’ve said sink in.

 

Finally, he looks at me and meets my eye. And he smiles, small and sad, but a smile all the same.

 

“Thanks, Marco,” he tells me in a hoarse whisper. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that it’s not my fault.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” I repeat firmly. “You deserve so much more.”

 

The quiet consumes both of us now, tired from a long day and night last night. We both lay back down and curl up under the blankets, and I let him curl closer to me, though neither of us really touch.

 

A new warmth spreads through my chest and I close my eyes, letting sleep finally find me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it! Fluff and sadness galore. This was probably one of the hardest chapters to write because heartbroken Marco makes me feel so sad. Also, I was so close to having them playing Flappy Bird, but I used Cowabunga because it's easier and makes me less angry.


	12. change in pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I need to apologize. It's totally been my fault that this chapter didn't get out sooner, but I was struggling with school as well as a bad case of writer's block. (Shout out to Lownly. I feel you, girl.) 
> 
> Secondly, I have to say that Katie and I have met so many interesting and amazing people because of this dumb fanfic. *tears up* YOU GUYS ARE THE GREATEST. It's so much fun talking to people on Tumblr and getting to know other people in the fandom. n__n If you want ever want to talk, [this is Katie's Tumblr](http://katiedegennaro.tumblr.com/) and [this is my Tumblr](http://shingekinoboyfriends.tumblr.com/)! Don't be shy, we're actually really dumb. ( ಠ◡ಠ )
> 
> Also thank you to [approaching-infinity](http://approaching-infinity.tumblr.com/), [lady-shroom](http://lady-shroom.tumblr.com/), [genesiee](http://genesiee.tumblr.com/), and [i-am-the-strider](http://i-am-the-strider.tumblr.com/) who drew us fanart!! It seriously boggles my mind that people would ever draw fanart for this story. uwu
> 
> OKAY ENOUGH TALKING. Sorry for this long-ass intro. On with the story! ♡♡♡

I keep my eyes fixed on my bedroom door for hours. Marco sleeps next to me, his eyelids gently shut as his chest rises and falls with every breath he takes. Shadows move past the light in the doorframe, and quiet voices just outside accompany them. _My parents._

 

We never came back for dinner and Marco isn’t in his room. I wish I could hear what they’re whispering about but their speech is elusive and too hushed to be perceptible. I can guess, though. My stepmother is probably telling my father something about how his son is getting out of control. Telling him about how I’m a lost cause. How I’m a breeding ground for failure and the longer they put off dealing with me, the longer it will take for me to change into some sort of acceptable human being.

 

But where it stands now, it seems they’ve lumped me into a category of social and societal inadequacy. They know I won’t ever make anything out of myself, but as much as they pretend to care, they really don’t.

 

Marco is the only one who has ever thought differently. He doesn’t think I’m a failure. He doesn’t try and tell me to do anything other than follow what I love to do – making art. He doesn’t sit across from me at dinner tables, punching me in the stomach with every word, making me feel like absolute shit because I’m just plain average.

 

I fall asleep after a little while of tossing and turning, but Marco never stirs. I wake up at the crack of dawn with my arms outstretched, perhaps subconsciously trying to find him in my sleep. The new and barely-used digital alarm clock shines blue through the dim light: _6:45._

 

Marco is still facing me, his breathing just as even and soft as it was when I drifted off, and I know he’s sleeping, but I don’t care.

 

I blink slowly and sigh. I’m still tired, and I remember the events from the night before vividly as though no time has passed at all. But we’re leaving today, because I’m not going to spend another fucking day with these people if I can help it.

 

If Marco hadn’t been around, and if he hadn’t invited me to his house over break, I don’t know what I would have done. Maybe my parents would have left me alone like they always did before – but was that better? Silence? Or was my father striking me across the face on my first day back at home from the holidays something I should be thankful for?

 

This life is so fucked up. But somehow, the kid laying in bed with me – my best friend in this whole goddamned world – holds an air of normalcy. He steadies me, even if he doesn’t realize it.

 

I reach for Marco now, but I can’t bring myself to touch him. I can’t take advantage of him again. Instead, my hand hovers in front of his chest, itching to smooth the ripples from the neck of his shirt. My eyes move upward. His face is so serene while he’s sleeping; a wave of calm rushes over me and, despite everything, I catch myself smiling a little.

 

And even though he can’t hear me, I say the words anyway.

 

“I can’t thank you right – I don’t have the guts to say it while you’re awake.” My words are a raspy whisper. I gulp. “You’re the fucking best thing that has happened to me in years… and I don’t know how you put up with my bullshit.”

 

He’s still sleeping, his breathing still moving slow.

 

My voice breaks. “Thank you, Marco.”

 

I let him sleep a while longer while I get up, rolling out of bed and padding across the room to my dresser. I open it and grab some extra clothes, not really thinking as I shove them into my suitcase. I pull out every drawer to make sure there’s nothing I’m forgetting.

 

Underwear, check. Socks, check. T-shirts, pants, hoodies, check.

 

I pull open the very bottom drawer, flipping through the random clothes I have shoved into it, and suddenly, my breathing hitches. I don’t move as my eyes land on _the thing,_ just sitting there in the back of the drawer like it’s not awkward or anything, especially now – especially with Marco still sound asleep in my bed.

 

Crouching down, I reach into the drawer and pull it out, then bring it closer to examine it. There’s a thin layer of dust coating it. To be honest, I forgot I even had it.

 

“Why did I even buy these in the first place?” I ask to no one in particular. “Like I was gonna go through a fucking variety pack. Because I was such a stud in high school.”

 

Yes, in my hand… was a giant fucking box of condoms.

 

I narrow my eyes at the box, giving it a good hard look, then throw them angrily back into the drawer. _I’m never gonna fucking use these things._ I shut the drawer with an aggravated sigh and move to the closet, continuing about my business.

 

 _But you_ want _to use them,_ I think. I can’t help scoffing out loud, but before I know it, I’m trapped in the gay vortex of my mind all over again. _You want to use them while you’re ravaging poor Marco’s ass with your enormous, rock-hard dick and make him cry out while you’re pounding it in, again and again, until…_

 

“Shit!” I hiss, pinching my eyes shut tight as the thought enters my brain too fast for me to push it away. How fucking low can I stoop? He’s my best friend. He doesn’t like you in that way. You can’t let yourself fantasize about fucking Marco. You just can’t.

 

But there’s a painful throbbing in my dick and it takes me a few moments of deep breathing to get myself back under control. Part of me knows I should just go into the bathroom and take care of the problem but, shit, it’s _Marco..._ I really need to learn some fucking decency.

 

I change my clothes, throwing the pajamas in a pile with the heap of discarded dress shirts, pants, and blazers Marco and I wore last night. I take a few extra things and put them in my bag, then move to Marco’s side of the bed.

 

Placing a hand on his shoulder, I shake him a little. “Hey, wake up. We gotta go.”

 

It’s slow, but his eyes squint open and a hand moves from under the covers to his forehead, his fingers curving to the contours of his face before gently running through the front of his hair.

 

“Sleep okay?” I ask him lightly.

 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods. After a few moments, he manages to sit upright in bed, propping himself up against the headboard. His shoulders fall forward in tiredness.

 

“Do you feel okay today, Jean?” he says, and his voice is groggy.

 

I look at him, a little at a loss for words because the guy literally just woke up and is already making sure I feel alright. I’m glad I haven’t touched the overhead light switch, otherwise he’d be able to see how hard I’m blushing.

 

“Y-Yeah,” I reply, “I’m okay. Ready to go, though.”

 

Marco nods again and wipes the sleep from his eyes with his fingertips. “How long have you been up?”

 

“’Bout an hour.”

 

He laughs silently. “You could have woke me up, dummy.”

 

I know he’s only joking, but I’m too aware of the fact that my bed smells like Marco to find it funny. I’m still blushing when I say, “Yeah, well. I was just trying to be a good friend, let you sleep a little. We’ve got a big day.”

 

Suddenly, his eyes light up and he turns his face upward to meet mine. “You get to meet my mom today,” he says brightly. “And my brother.”

 

“I can’t wait,” I smile – and it’s genuine, because I really can’t wait to meet these people who he talks about so much. I honestly feel like I’ve been missing out on a big piece of his life by not having met them before.

 

“Get your stuff packed up,” I continue, folding my arms across my chest and shooting a backward glance at the door. I don’t hear any movement or voices… and I want to leave before they realize we’re gone. “We gotta go soon.”

 

Marco understands. He changes quickly – stating that we can both get cleaned up later at his place, which I almost forgot about. As he zips his suitcase shut, I casually sniff my armpit and _woah_. Before I forget, I dart to the bathroom and throw on some ‘deo for my B.O. I catch myself in the mirror, my face still recovering from the heavy blushing just a few minutes ago.

 

The thought crosses my mind – that thought that is almost always present whenever Marco is concerned – telling me that I need to cut the shit and stop acting like a blushing virgin (even if that is completely and regrettably the truth). But even as I think it, there’s a sudden notion that pushes back. It’s a notion I’ve never had before.

 

_You’re allowed to feel this way, you know._

 

It only makes me blush harder. I bring both hands up to my cheeks and crouch down on the ceramic tile flooring. “Jean you idiot, you are a complete idiot,” I whisper aloud in frustration.

 

At once, there’s a soft rapping on the door. Immediately, I whip my head in the direction of the noise and stand from the floor. I make a fist and cough into it, clearing my throat, and unlatch the door before opening it. There stands Marco in the dim light, one suitcase in each hand – one for each of us.

 

“I’m ready when you are,” is all he says.

 

The inner frustrations and rage and confusion suddenly fizzles away, and it’s just Marco and me in the eye of a storm. I look at him… and there’s clarity.

 

_So what’s stopping you?_

 

With a deep breath, I answer: “I’m ready.” 

* * *

 

I buy the train tickets at the station and after a half hour of waiting around, it finally pulls in and we get on, finding seats in one of the back cars. Two seats face each other and there’s a window to our left.

 

“I hate trains,” I tell Marco, folding my arms across my chest as we wait for all the passengers to get on board and find their seats. “I hate the smelly people and I hate how long it takes for people to sit their asses down and get their seatbelts on and–”

 

Marco starts to laugh and it puts me at ease. My nerves have been a little tense all morning for obvious reasons – but his laughter keeps me in check.

 

“I dunno, Jean,” he shrugs after a moment, “I kind of like them. They’re kind of like plane rides.”

 

“Planes are the _worst,_ ” I grumble, leaning heavily on the stiff arm rest.

 

“Maybe to you, but to me, they’re like a special thing.”

 

I snort. “You must not ride planes often.”

 

“Actually, I’ve only ever flown once.”

 

At this, I nearly spit everywhere. _Is this kid for real?_ “Seriously? I’ve been on loads of plane rides, and you’ve only been on a plane _once?_ When was _that?_ ”

 

“I think I was nine or ten,” he laughs a little nervously, his hand moving to cup the back of his neck. “My mom took Angelo and me to Disney. It was weird because I don’t remember anything from the pictures – we met Goofy and Buzz Lightyear, and we rode It’s A Small World – and none of that sticks out.” Marco laughs again. “I mean, I’m sure it was all great, don’t get me wrong. But the thing I remember the most was the plane ride.”

 

“Hn.” I squint up at him. “Why’s that?”

 

“Don’t know,” he says honestly, then starts to play with the string on his hoodie, twirling it around his finger mindlessly as he becomes lost in his own thoughts. “Something about being up so high, and not being able to see the ground… and the clouds looked like snowcap mountains.”

 

There’s a strange twist in my stomach, and it isn’t from the train taking off.

 

He’s not looking at me, but I can’t stop staring at him. “I guess I never thought of it that way before.”

 

We’re quiet a while, just listening to the sound of the train rolling by, watching out the window as we’re shuttled past a rolling green countryside. I catch myself wanting to tell him about all the places I’ve been – the Bahamas, France, Mexico, Japan… And about how the one place I always wanted to go to, but never got the chance, was Disney. I wanted my parents to take me on the rides, let me meet the people dressed in furry ass costumes pretending to be cartoon characters, hold their hands and treat me like a normal fucking kid for once, instead of a kid who is nothing more than extra baggage.

 

Marco scoots down further into his chair and moves his feet up on my kneecap. I raise an eyebrow at him quizzically, to which he simply smiles back. It’s strange, the physical contact.

 

I start to let my mind wander, thinking now about how just two nights ago, we were both at Sasha’s party, and how then seems so far away from now. A lot can happen in two days, I guess.

 

…Naturally, I recall a certain event happening that night. An event involving my lips sloppily meeting Marco’s. Yeah, I was drunk – but something like that isn’t easy to forget. I glance up at Marco again, quickly, and find his eyes shut. He looks comfortable and carefree. I blatantly wonder if he’s ignoring the fact that the kiss happened at all, or if he thinks maybe _I_ am. He might even think I don’t remember – shit, I don’t know. There’s a million and one things that could be going through his head and I can’t pinpoint any one in particular as being right.

 

But he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and I get the feeling there’s a reason behind that, so I don’t bring it up. Instead, I grab my sketchbook from my bag and start doodling to pass the time. When I look up a bit later, Marco has fallen asleep. Before I even know what I’m doing, my stupid doodles of mecha and aliens and giant, creepy people monsters eating normal-sized people (what? I have a vivid imagination) turn into doodles of Marco sleeping across from me.

 

I haven’t sketched him since that time I was forced against my will to stare down his freckled ass in my art class. This time is different, though, and it isn’t because he’s clothed.

 

Okay, well, it kind of is. But.

 

When I look at him now, I feel different. Comfortable. Like I already know the contours of his face before I draw it out. The pencil seems to move on its own. My hand flips up and down the page as fast as it can because I have to get him _just right,_ and the lighting coming through the window makes his hair glow in a really divine way, like he’s got some sort of halo around his head.

 

…I am so sure that “Freckled Jesus” isn’t even a nickname anymore. It’s a _fact._ He’s like a fucking angel or some shit and it pisses me off – because nobody should be able to make my stomach do these double-jumps while simultaneously tying it into uncomfortable knots. _Nobobdy._

 

Long, swooping strokes render his arms and the muscles that make his jacket sleeves tight around the shoulders… I see how his collar is wrinkled against his neck, and for too long, the urge to reach out and fix it for him takes over my body, as though some unexplainable force is willing me to do it. But, of course, I don’t. I keep drawing him until I feel like giving up because the real thing is sitting right in front of me, and I can’t get it right with pencil and paper.

 

I close the book and lean my head back. The ride seems even longer with the anticipation building up inside me like Mentos and Coke. There’s still the leftover regret I have of leaving home early and not giving my parents a proper goodbye, leaving an awful taste in my mouth and a strange aching in my chest. It’s the feeling like I’m never going to find peace that makes the anxiety even worse. It just… perpetuates.

 

An hour before we arrive, Marco wakes up. My eyes flicker from the window to where he sits across from me, just starting to move from the stagnant position he’s occupied for three hours straight.

 

“Hey, buddy. Have a nice little nap?” I laugh, folding my arms across my chest. “It’s like you’re freaking narcoleptic or something. A nap yesterday, a nap today…”

 

He blinks his eyes open slowly, breathing deeply, then shrugs in response. When he speaks, his voice is groggy. “I don’t know why I’m so tired lately.”

 

“Maybe it’s stress,” I offer, despite knowing that the way I personally deal with stress is giving me the opposite problem. Sleep just won’t come, no matter how much I wish it would.

 

“Maybe,” he echoes softly. His eyes seem to widen when he realizes his legs are still resting on top of mine. “Oh, jeez! Sorry to burden you for so long.”

 

I stretch a leg out as he moves his away and feel a stabbing pain entering my kneecap. “My leg fell asleep,” I laugh, and at this, Marco begins listing off a whole string of apologies with which to quell my aching knee. “Don’t worry about it. If it really bothered me that much, I would have told you.”

 

Marco’s cheeks flush, and for some reason, I can’t help but smile.

 

The rest of the train ride is spent passing my phone back and forth, trying to beat each other’s scores on that damn Flappy Bird game Reiner had been crying about before we left for break. Every time I give the phone back to Marco, it’s like he pulls some magical set of skills out of his ass and achieves new high scores on _my_ phone (which pisses me off because, of course, Flappy Bird is now tacked onto the list of things Marco does better than me). Eventually I stick the phone in my pocket and tell him he isn’t allowed to keep playing.

 

Marco rolls his eyes with a smile. “Sore loser.”

 

I scoff. “I’m not a sore loser, I just hate this game.” _Smooth recovery._

 

“It’s okay, Jean. I’ll give you some time to catch up before I beat your score again.” With this, Marco winks at me, and we both bust out into laughter, earning a few stares from people around us.

 

The train begins to slow to a stop and I look at Marco, making sure this is the one. He nods at me knowingly and we stand. He helps me get my suitcase down from the overhead compartment in which we’ve stowed our things, then gets his down as well. The doors to the train open and we step off, into a cloud of rolling steam and misty sunshine.

 

“It’s freezing,” I shiver, pulling my coat tighter. “Was it this cold when we left?”

 

“Might’ve dropped a few degrees,” Marco says, then shoots me another look. He stops walking after we leave the station and face the small town street. “Hold on a second, I think I have an extra scarf in my bag.”

 

Just as I start to shake my head and tell him no – that I’m fine, that I don’t need his stupid scarf – he drops to his knees and unzips his luggage, rummaging around for only a moment before pulling out a soft, cream-colored, knitted cowl.

 

He stands back up and presents it to me with both hands.

 

“Uh,” I say, taking it from him and hesitating before dropping it over my head, “thanks.”

 

“No problem,” he grins, zipping his bag up.

 

I bury my nose in the knit – and it’s not because of the drop in temperature.

 

It isn’t far to the nearest bus stop, which Marco tells me has a direct route to his neighborhood. In my mind, when someone says something is _near_ something, I don’t expect to have to walk another mile and a half after getting dropped off… but in Marco’s sense of the word, “near” has a completely different meaning.

 

We get off the bus in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. There are two roads: one, a dirt road leading one direction, and the other that winds around an open field filled with snow and iced-up cornstalks. I stand still for a moment before facing him with an arched eyebrow.

 

“Marco?” I ask.

 

“Hm?”

 

It takes me a moment to find the correct words to accurately articulate what is going on in my head.

 

“Where the _fuck_ are we?”

 

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. So I know that this is nothing like Trost. _I know._ ”

 

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” I laugh, “I’m just genuinely confused… and maybe a little concerned because I don’t see a house anywhere. Like, not even your house. Just _any_ house.” I pause before cracking, “You didn’t trick me into coming out here so you could murder me, did you?”

 

He cheeses. “Oh yeah, Jean, my secret plan all along was to become your friend, lure you home with me, and kill you in the field at the end of my road. That makes so much sense.” Marco shakes his head, and when we start walking down the dirt road, our laughter rises like little smoke clouds in the winter air.

 

I scuff my boots on snow and complain about how heavy the suitcase is. Honestly, why did I pack so much? I regret everything. Marco just rolls his eyes at me and offers to swap, since he doesn’t have very much, but obviously I turn him down because I am a _man_. A buff, manly man who can carry his own damn suitcase, thank you very much.

 

“Your arms will get tired,” he says nonchalantly, and I scoff at him.

 

_Can’t be much farther, anyway… You can just tough it out; quit being a baby._

 

But by the time we are halfway down the road, my wrists are tired and my shoulders ache and I’m dragging my feet like I’m four years old. Marco notices I’m starting to fall behind, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slows and matches pace with me.

 

“I had to walk this whole road every morning to catch the bus for school when I was a kid,” he says dismissively, “so I promise you will be able to make it to my house in one piece.”

 

I snort. “That sounds like something a grandpa would say.”

 

“I am no grandpa!”

 

Taking in a deep breath, I say, “Marco, I was only teasing. You’re more of a little boy than a grandpa.”

 

“I’m not a little boy, either.”

 

“Remind me again whose ass got smashed on Halloween, who couldn’t even put their own pajamas on by themselves?”

 

Marco turns on me suddenly, and there’s something there in his eyes that isn’t playful – it doesn’t fit how back-and-forth we’re being, just joking around. There’s something in his eyes that tells me what he’s about to say isn’t a joke.

 

I wait for him to speak, but in the end, he doesn’t say anything at all.

 

It’s a minute of silent walking before I breathe a word.

 

“Just now,” my words come slow, “you were going to say something.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Marco says quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” He tries a smile but it’s fake and I can tell – anyone would be able to. It doesn’t exactly take a genius to know when he’s trying to hide something.

 

I don’t know why, but I get this strange feeling like he was about to call me out on kissing him the other night. I feel really weird about it – and he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. That much is clear. But I almost wish he would say something, rather than just leaving it like he is, like the elephant in the room. The silence only makes me feel worse… There’s so much left unsaid.

 

The silence is soon broken though, the awkward moment avoided – and all thanks to Marco. “It’s right up there,” he says, pointing a finger to the house that’s just visible 500 feet up the road. Then he laughs. “It’s not much, but it’s cozy, at least.”

 

“Bless the light at the end of this proverbial tunnel, being the long-ass hike you just put me through,” I snort. “And yes, I will be complaining every time we have to go up and down this road over the entire break so you should probably get used to it.”

 

“I don’t mind.” Marco smiles over his shoulder at me. “I like it when you complain.”

 

“Huh,” I huff, “and why is that?”

 

He shrugs. “I guess it’s just very… human of you.” There’s a pause, and his breath rises in the air. “Sometimes I forget you’ve got flaws, too.”

 

“Oh, you don’t think I have _flaws_?” I can’t help laughing as he says this. “You must still be living in that rose-tinted world of yours to think that, dude.”

 

“It’s true!” Marco grins embarrassedly.

 

“You’re the perfect one, here, Freckles.” I point a finger at him and narrow my eyes. “Do I really need to verbalize this for you?”

 

“I mean, if you want,” Marco jokes – but he’s blushing, and my chest starts to hurt when I see his ears turn pink, so I bury my nose in the cowl and shove my hands in my pockets, and I begin the endless list of Marco’s flawlessness.

 

“You’re smart – way smarter than me. Friendly. Hard-working.”

 

He chuckles loudly, but it’s nervous, and he waves a hand in front of him as though to shush me. “Okay, Jean, I was only kidding…”

 

“…And you got me out of that fucking dark hole I would have been trapped in otherwise.” I mean that he saved me from an entire break spent at home, and even though I don’t specify, he gets it. I’m so indebt to this kid I can’t even stand it, and I am so thankful that I got stuck with this teenage dweebus for a roommate. Instead of telling him, I keep pent-up all of these things I don’t know how to say, bottling them all up and keeping them simmering until the moment they spill out… Among other things, such as the fact that I’ve developed some dumb, schoolboy crush on him that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake.

 

We turn at the mailbox shaped like a cow (why it’s a cow? I have no idea) and walk up the hill to his house. Holy shit is it small – that much I can tell from just looking at the outside of it. It’s a cream-colored, one-level place with brown shutters on the outer windows. Super retro, like, this place was totally built in the 70s. The image of a shag carpet comes to mind and I pray to god there’s not wood paneling.

 

He pulls out a small, silver key from his pocket and lets us in. The overwhelming scent of cinnamon isn’t just coming from the scarf anymore, but its in everything. We take our shoes off on the welcome mat that has an image of praying hands burned into it, proclaiming: “Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven.” As I read it, I raise an eyebrow involuntarily and take in the rest of the house. My eyes scan the walls, noting that _no_ , there is no wood paneling, but the walls are instead covered in encouragements and religious imagery. I can already count two crosses, and it’s just the front room.

 

“Uh,” Marco starts, eyeing me carefully, “my mom is, like, really into Jesus.”

  
Laughing, I hike my bag a little further up my shoulder and look over at him, meeting his gaze. “Where are we sleeping?”

 

“Oh!” he says, clapping both hands together as his eyes light up. “I’ll show you to my room.”

 

We walk through the living room, pass the kitchen, and start down the long hallway. “There’s the bathroom,” Marco begins, “and in there is my mom’s room. A closet there, another closet…” And as we reach the final door at the end, he twists the doorknob and enters.

 

“This is my room,” he grins. “Well, mine and Angelo’s. You can sleep in here.”

 

Cautiously, I step forward and follow in behind him. I’m a little relieved to find only one cross in this room – not that, like, religion is a bad thing, it’s just that _wow there is a lot of Jesus in one place_ – and it’s hanging above the bed on the opposite side of the room from Marco’s. There are stuffed animals stacked up against the pillows, and the sheets are pulled up stiffly around its rigid mattress. It obviously hasn’t been slept in for a while.

 

Marco’s bed is made, too, but it doesn’t look as dusty. On his nightstand, there’s a lamp and a photograph of two boys, both freckled with dark hair. One has acne and braces and the other is much younger, with a baby face and chubby cheeks.

 

I put my stuff on the floor and walk over to it to get a better look. Without a doubt, this kid is Marco. “I didn’t know you had braces,” I grin, then hold it up a little as my eyes flicker from the photograph to his face. He grins, a big cheese imitating the one in the picture.

 

“You don’t get teeth like these without going through years of intense orthodontistry,” Marco laughs.

 

“I had them, too. Worst two years of my life.” I pause, looking back at the picture before setting it down in its place again. “And let the record stand that, between the two of us, _I_ had worse acne.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Marco laughs.

 

“I would show you pictures if I hadn’t burned them all.”

 

He plops down onto his bed and sighs, leaning against the pillows. “Awkward middle school years were a drag.” Then, with a laugh, he says, “I feel like I’m still stuck in them.”

 

I laugh, too. “I still feel like I’m twelve years old. Like, when did we become adults?”

“They don’t teach you about taxes in school,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment. “Or loans. Or financial responsibilities.”

 

“I hate being a grown up,” I say as I take a seat at the end of his bed, pulling my knees up to my chest. “I wanna stay a little kid forever.”

 

“Invent a time machine,” Marco grins.

 

I smile right back, so hard my teeth show a little. “Well then I’m taking you with me. There’s no way in hell I’m reliving those years on my own again.”

 

“Alright, let’s do it,” Marco says, leaning forward a little as he props himself up on his elbows. Without even thinking, I lean forward a little, and within seconds we’re laughing like a couple of idiots.

 

Maybe it’s the room, but I suddenly feel comfortable, like I’m in a real home for once instead of a museum. The walls of Marco’s bedroom are covered in posters for old sci-fi movies and concerts from the 90s. There are a few vinyl records hanging, the cover art resting on thumbtacks – The Temptations’ single “Build Me Up Buttercup,” Billy Joel’s “The Stranger,” and The Mama’s and the Papa’s single “California Dreamin’” rest among a few others I don’t recognize. There’s board games piled up in the corner and a shelf of books, DVDs, and VHS tapes overflowing near the window.

 

“You have a lot of stuff,” I tell him blatantly.

 

“It’s second-hand stuff, mostly,” he blushes. “And it’s just accumulated over the years. We don’t like to throw stuff away.”

 

After a moment of silence, I say, “It’s like… the opposite of my room.” My voice is quiet. The fact that it all looks so lived-in makes my chest hurt a little; I recognize this feeling instantly as jealousy. I’m jealous because even though this house is so small, and even though it’s crystal clear judging by the worn-out and cheap appearance everything seems to have that they’re barely middle-class, I wish that I could have what Marco has.

 

Then I watch as his eyes flicker over to the bed across the room and the sudden jealousy filling my chest dulls. An audible sigh escapes me and I run a hand through my hair – catching myself acting like a complete asshole for probably the millionth time.

 

 _Jean, you’re an idiot,_ I think, averting my gaze. _How could you be jealous of someone whose brother is in the ICU?_

 

“My mom will probably be home soon,” Marco says suddenly, his flip phone open in his hand, checking the time. “She usually gets home from the office around five.” His thumb clicks a few different buttons before furiously typing out a text message. Then, with a final click, he shuts the phone and sticks it back in his pocket.

 

“Want something to eat?” he asks me, sitting upright in bed. As he does this, I realize how close we are – and just as my breath hitches, my stomach lets out a long, awkward growl.

 

Marco throws his head back with a laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes?” Then, standing, he nods toward the door, indicating he wants me to follow him. I roll out of bed and give one last look to Marco’s room before trailing after him toward the kitchen. The door closes behind me with a light click.

 

“I don’t exactly know what we have, since I haven’t been home in a while,” he prefaces, opening up the fridge as I take a seat on a barstool at the counter.

 

“Anything sounds good,” I tell him honestly. “But I swear to God, if you try and feed me more Pop Tarts, there’s gonna be blood.”

 

“Hey!” he laughs. “You’re the one who keeps buying them!”

 

I fold my arms across my chest and roll my eyes. “Yeah, well.”

 

After eyeing the fridge for a moment, he closes the door with a defeated sigh and moves to the cupboard. “How about a peanut butter sandwich?” he asks over his shoulder.

 

I raise an eyebrow. “No jelly?”

 

“Fresh out,” he laughs – but it sounds nervous, and I wonder if it’s because he’s embarrassed that there’s not much food laying around, and what _is_ left is rather unglamorous.

 

I shrug and smile. “Sounds alright to me.”

 

Marco then goes about preparing two sandwiches – saving the one made with the two ends for himself and giving me the one with the nice middle pieces. I don’t mean to, but I blush anyway. God, I’m a right fucking idiot. Blushing over a _sandwich._

 

“Thanks,” I say between bites.

 

“No problem,” he says with sandwich in his mouth. He brows furrow. “You know, I guess I didn’t really think about it, but Mom is probably going to be making dinner soon.”

 

I snort. “Then why are we eating sandwiches?”

 

“I don’t know!” he blurts out with a laugh, finally managing to swallow. “So, uh, just pretend to be hungry… or something… Oh, God, I’m such a bad son!” He sticks a hand over his face and drops to the counter on his elbows.

 

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a lie,” I tell him as I shove the last of it in my mouth, standing from my seat and dusting the crumbs off my shirt. “You underestimate my ability to put food away.”

 

“Maybe because your ability to put anything _else_ away is severely lacking,” Marco says flatly, looking me dead in the eyes.

 

A moment of silence passes between us and I almost choke on the sandwich.

 

“W-What?” I cough out.

 

Marco tilts his head a little, squinting his eyes in a confused manner, but suddenly the innuendo clicks in his head and he blushes furiously. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean like that! I meant, like, your laundry!”

 

“You meant like a dick!” I laugh.

 

Marco’s blush intensifies. “N-No I didn’t!”

 

“Oh yeah, you did,” I smirk, pressing my palms flat against the countertop and arching my back forward. “You totally want me to put your dick away, don’t you!”

 

“No I don’t!” he screams, covering his face with his hands. “And I’m not blushing because I do – y-you’re just making me flustered!”

 

I laugh so hard my shoulders start to shake – but before long, Marco’s laughing to, and after a while, we aren’t even laughing about anything. Rather, we’re just feeding off one another’s laughter.

 

We lose it so bad that we don’t even hear the front door open.

 

In the midst of our hysteria, a soft, feminine voice calls from the adjacent room: “Marco?”

 

Immediately the laughter dies. Marco’s eyes go big and I watch him tense up for a moment before striding past me into the front room. Looking over my shoulder, I watch Marco's back as he comes crashing into the arms of a shorter woman just coming in the door. It’s hard to get a good look at her face; Marco’s height seems to engulf her, and he doesn’t appear to be letting her go anytime soon.

 

I head over to the front door to meet _her_ – Marco’s mom. Up close, she has a zillion freckles, just like Marco, though her hair is a shade lighter. There are little crows feet at the corners of her eyes and her front teeth are a little crooked; you can tell in her smile.

 

When Marco does finally pull away, the woman’s eyes are wet.

 

“Oh, honey,” she smiles, and wipes at her eyes, “I’m so glad you’re home.” Her hand lingers on his cheek for a minute. I notice the subtle way he leans into her touch and, for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away from her.

 

When she turns to face me, I stand up straighter. I don’t know why.

 

“You must be Jean,” she says right off the bat, her voice still as smooth as it had been moments before, but it breaks because of the tears threatening to leak from her eyes. “It’s so good to meet you.”

 

She holds out a gentle hand to shake, and I look down at it without moving. For a moment, everything is still… and then I reach up to shake it and feel a sudden pang in my chest.

 

I don’t even mean to say it aloud, but I do anyway. It comes out as a breath.

 

“So this is what a mother’s hand feels like.”

 

Ms. Bodt is quiet. When I look back up at her, there’s a familiar flush to her cheeks that I recognize from Marco.

 

“Oh, sorry,” I say suddenly, letting go of her hand with a rush of immediacy crashing down on me. “Um, it’s nice to meet you Ms. Bodt.”

 

“It’s fine! You can call me Giuliana,” she smiles. “Marco tells me all about you…I was really glad that you decided to stay with us over break.”

 

My eyes light up. _Marco talks about me? To his_ mother _?!_

 

“Oh, and I got off a bit early today, so I ran to the store and got something to make for dinner,” she announces proudly, motioning to the filled-to-the-top paper bag near her feet. “And I was thinking about making banana pudding pie, does that sound alright?”

 

“That sounds great,” I tell her. If it’s anything like what Marco made on Thanksgiving, I’ll probably die and go to desert heaven.

 

“Her pie is going to make mine look like pond scum,” Marco laughs. “She’s an amazing cook.”

 

“I’m _sure_ yours wasn’t pond scum,” Giuliana says, her tone flat.

 

“It was really good, Marco. Seriously. I couldn’t believe you’d never made it before.”

 

“Okay, okay! Whatever you say.” His voice shakes and he lets out a string of nervous laughter before occupying himself with taking in the groceries to the kitchen and putting them away.

 

Just as I’m about to follow after Marco, the sound of Giuliana’s voice stops me. “Jean,” she says. Her voice sounds like silk.

 

I falter back and face her. I’m about a head taller than she is, which I make a mental note of – Marco’s father must have been gigantic for the height difference to even out.

 

“Thank you for taking care of my son,” she says softly.

 

“O-Oh,” I say, stumbling over my words like I’m trying to find a light switch in the dark. “Um, you’re welcome. But it doesn’t only go one way, I promise you – he’s always looking out for me, too.”

 

Giuliana smiles again. “You’re lucky to have each other, then.”

 

My lips part as if to speak, but no sound comes out. She’s said it better than I ever could. I close my mouth and nod at her, then reach a hand up to grip the back of my neck. The skin feels warm to the touch.

 

“Mom,” Marco calls, his voice cutting through the stillness of the moment. “Are we making pasta?”

 

With a sigh of relief, I let Giuliana lead the way into the kitchen and try to forget the knowing look I just saw in her eyes.

* * *

 

So Marco might have been right about the banana pudding pie.

 

Obviously the one he made on Thanksgiving was amazing, but what Giuliana somehow manages to create using the exact same ingredients is beyond holy. Like, not even Seventh Heaven status – more like Jesus-tier amazing. Not that I’ve met Jesus or anything. I’m just saying, even the big guy upstairs probably would agree that her pie is some kind of staggeringly delicious.

 

Before I know it, dinner is over and I’m on the floor of the living room, both hands on my stomach as I cradle the food baby currently growing inside me.

 

“That good, huh?” Marco asks, looking down at me as he crosses the room to take a seat on the couch.

 

I don’t reply, and instead let out a muffled groan.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Giuliana laughs from the kitchen.

 

Marco lets me have it, not hesitating to tell it like it is. “Looks like you’re in pain… You know, you didn’t have to eat it all. That was your decision, and now you’ve gotta live with the consequences.” He falls onto the couch with a huff.

 

“I knoooooow,” I cry, a gross sob escaping my mouth. “But it was there and it looked good.”

 

Marco stifles a chuckle. “Guess your eyes are bigger than your stomach.”

 

When Giuliana finishes putting the dishes away, she joins us in the living room and plops down next to Marco. I glance up at them and take note of how his head seems to fall onto her shoulder subconsciously. She reaches a hand up to hold the left side of his face for just a moment, before he hands her the remote and she turns on the nightly news.

 

“So what were you boys planning on doing tomorrow?” she asks, her tone casual, “because I was thinking, you might like to see Angelo.”

 

At the name, I perk up a little. I sit up a little and glance at Marco whose eyes immediately lock onto mine. “Would that be okay, Jean?” he asks, tilting his head a little. I can tell by the look on his face he’s equal parts nervous and happy, because he obviously misses his little brother but doesn’t really know how I will take seeing him. Hell, I’m not even sure how I’ll take it. From what I’ve gathered, he’s in a coma. Not awake. How do you introduce someone who isn’t mentally there?

 

Despite this, I push my thoughts aside and say, “Of course.”

 

Marco beams at me, and I know that whatever happens tomorrow, at least he is happy right now. I hope I can keep him smiling like this for as long as possible – but reality might soon sink in and wipe it away, so I try not to think about the morning.

 

Giuliana stays to watch television with us for a few hours. It isn’t long before Marco slinks down onto the floor and joins me on his back. After the news, the channel gets changed to Jeopardy. I come to realize that Marco and his mother are not only really into this show, but they’re also _really_ good at answering the questions. They shout answers out at the old, boxy TV set, and nine times out of ten they’re right. I feel like a total nimrod when I can’t even guess one, but it’s fun listening to them get so worked up about fucking trivia.

 

Giuliana flips through the channels for a while after the show ends, but soon she announces she’s heading to bed.

 

“Night, mom,” Marco says quietly as she bends over to kiss him on the forehead.

 

“Goodnight, my angel,” she says – and at these words, Marco becomes obviously embarrassed and covers his face in his hands.

 

“Goodnight, Ms. Bo- I mean, Giuliana,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Thanks again for letting me stay here over break. I really appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Jean,” she smiles, and just as I think she’s about to head down the hallway to her bedroom, she leans down and plants a little kiss on my forehead, too. “You are always welcome here.”

 

Once I finally am able to form words in reply, she’s long gone. I look over at Marco and the look on his face tells me the one on mine looks stupid as fuck, so I shove him and subsequently release the laughter bubbling in his throat. After a few minutes though, his laughter dies and finishes with a simple sigh; his shoulders become even with the carpeted floor and his heavy-lidded eyes look up at the ceiling.

 

Without thinking, I roll over onto my side and face him. “So that was your mom,” I state. “She was really nice. Like, a lot nicer than I expected.” _Maybe it’s because I’m just not used to mothers being so warm, and kind, and loving._

 

“I think she had a pre-conceived idea of you,” Marco says. “And it doesn’t matter whether you really match it or not, she just thinks you’re, uh, the bee’s knees.”

 

“‘Bee’s knees’?” I laugh. “Well, anyway, I wonder how she knew so much about me in the first place.” I side-eye Freckles and his lips purse. One thing I’ve learned about Marco is that he sure loves to talk about me when I’m not around.

 

“You are my roommate,” he decides finally.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“A-And my best friend.”

 

I smirk, folding my arm beneath my head to rest it on. “Mhm.”

 

Marco gulps. “So I guess it was only natural for me to tell her about you… And quit looking at me like that.” He tears his eyes away from me, but makes no move to get up and leave.

 

“I’m not looking at you in any sort of way.”

 

“Yes you are.”

 

“Sure,” I laugh. A long breath slowly blows from my lips and I close my eyes. At once, a thought creeps back to the forefront of my mind, and I can’t help it when I change the subject. The feeling between us is suddenly altered; it turns solemn within seconds. “So, you’re really okay with bringing me to meet your brother tomorrow?”

 

Marco goes quiet, but after a moment, he rolls over to face me. His eyes meet mine and he stares unfalteringly. “I mean,” he starts, “I’m a little nervous. I guess I just… uh, don’t want you to feel awkward about it.” Marco pauses. “I know you probably don’t fully understand the situation. I just don’t want you to be, um, shocked when you see that he’s…”

 

My mouth feels dry. Marco’s suddenly covering his eyes with his hands and I don’t hesitate to drape an arm over his side, my hand flush against the curve of his spine.

 

“It’s going to be okay,” I say.

 

It’s a strange thing when you start to notice changes in yourself – especially after you spend so much time with a person. And, maybe it isn’t that I’ve changed, but I’m realizing that it isn’t wrong to feel weak… and it isn’t wrong to need someone to hold you and tell you that everything’s going to be okay, even if it’s not. Even if you feel like your shoulders are crushed beneath the weight of everything, and you’re a fraction away from completely cracking. I look at Marco and see how strong he always has to be, and a sense of admiration washes over me.

 

He leans into my touch, but when he pulls his hands away, I realize he wasn’t crying. His cheeks are a little splotchy, but there aren’t any tears in his eyes like I thought there would be. Marco sighs and tucks his head down.

 

Still, I don’t make a move to extricate my hand, and neither does he.

 

“Jean,” Marco says after a while. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re still wearing the scarf.”

 

“Oh, god.” My hands fly to the scarf curled around my neck and start to take it off. “Sorry, I didn’t realize-“

 

“No, it’s okay!” he says, holding up both hands before reaching out to grab the scarf away from me. “Wear it… It’s nice.” As he wraps it back around my neck, it’s like I’m frozen. I just let him put it back on, and try not to shudder as his knuckles brush up against my jawline.

 

After a while, we both return our attention to the TV. I force Marco to put on the scary movie playing on HBO – Texas Chainsaw Massacre, which he has never seen before. He fights me hard on it, but eventually (and grudgingly) selects the channel before prefacing that he is not in any way brave when it comes to gore.

 

“It’s okay,” I laugh, “I’ll be right here for you if you get scared.”

 

“This better not be like Grave Encounters,” he says quietly. “That movie scarred me.”

 

“It’s a lot more gruesome.” I watch the look on his face turn from nervous to about-to-shit-bricks. “Don’t look like that, it’s really a good movie.”

 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

 

In the end, Marco kind of gets into it. I have to help shield his eyes when any of the really awful scenes come on, like when the killer, Leatherface, slices off that one guy’s face and makes it into a mask. He trembles beneath my hands as I forcefully cover his eyes, while I become even more engrossed in the brutal torture happening on screen.

 

“Whatever is happening, it sounds terrible,” Marco says. His hands gently move to cover mine.

 

“It’s pretty, uh…” I start, squinting my eyes as Leatherface hoists a man in the air and lowers him down onto a sharp, metal hook, which pierces through the skin of his back and keeps him hanging in the air. “Well, you probably don’t want to look now, but it’s kind of awesome.”

 

“If you’re saying it’s awesome, then I _know_ I don’t wanna look.”

 

 _Oh, Jesus,_ I think, watching him for a moment before moving my hands away. _Why is he so fucking cute, like, all the goddamn time?_

 

The rest of the movie plays out in a similar fashion, and toward the end, Marco physically hides his face behind my shoulder. I try and keep my laughing down because I know Giuliana is in bed and has to work in the morning, but it’s definitely a struggle.

 

As soon as the credits begin to roll, Marco finds the remote and turns the television off.

 

“We are not letting you pick the movie next time,” he says, his tone serious as a heart attack.

 

“Come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

 

He laughs once humorlessly. “Not that bad. Okay, sure.”

 

We’re both still sprawled out on the floor, but our proximity has heightened; Marco is so close that his shoulder touches mine. The clock sitting just above the TV reads: _11:42_ , and just as I notice how late it’s become, an involuntary yawn pries itself from my lips. Marco shoots a look over at me.

 

“Ready for bed?” he asks.

 

I’m about to tell him no, but the fact that I got so little sleep the night before tacked onto how busy our day was make denying him impossible. My eyelids flutter shut and I groan.

 

“I don’t want to, but I think if we wait any longer, I might actually pass out right here.”

 

“Yikes,” Marco says, standing. He lowers a hand down to me and my eyelids flutter open. I take his hand and he pulls me up from the ground before leading me down the hallway and into his bedroom. Finding my bag, he hoists it up onto his mattress and jostles the sheets with a heavy _thump_. “You can have the bed,” he says. “The sheets are clean, and if you need any extra pillows, just let me know.”

 

As he starts to turn around, I call after him.

 

“Hey, wait.” His shaggy brown hair rustles as he turns his head back around, a few strands falling in his eyes. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

 

Soundlessly, he points to the ground, then turns back around and opens up the bottom drawer of his dresser, from which he takes out a plain white t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants.

 

“No way,” I say, unzipping my own bag and pulling out the pajamas I brought with me. “I’ll take the floor. This is your house.”

 

“No, I’m on the floor,” Marco says sternly. “You’re my guest, I’m not going to let you sleep on the cold ground.”

 

“It’s cold?” I say, quirking an eyebrow. “Well then you sure as hell aren’t sleeping there.”

 

“Jeeeeean.”

 

I don’t say anything else because in this instance, Marco is too hard-headed to be reasoned with. We put our pajamas on facing two opposite directions, and when I’m done, I zip my suitcase back up and stick it near my other belongings up against the wall.

 

Marco starts setting up a bed for himself with a few thick blankets and a pillow from Angelo’s bed. I’m not exactly sure why he doesn’t just sleep there, but I have a feeling it’s got something to do with disturbing his place. Maybe Marco just doesn’t want anyone to sleep there until Angelo is back to healthy and normal, and is home to rustle the covers on his own.

 

With a smile, Marco pulls back the covers for me, crosses the room to the light switch, flicks it off, then returns and plops down amongst the blankets and pillows he has positioned with precision. I watch as he pulls the covers up around his neck, just the same as he always does while we’re at school.

 

He looks at me expectantly. Oh, shit. I’m not in bed yet.

 

With an aggravated sigh (because Marco is getting his way and I’m feeling like a total dick because of it) I slide under the covers and drape them over my chest. The only light still on in the room is Marco’s lamp on the bedside table, and after he makes sure I’m snuggled in, he flips the switch and the light goes out.

 

“Today was fun,” he says through the darkness. My eyes haven’t adjusted yet, so it’s just a voice without a face. I figure it doesn’t matter, anyway – I’ll be out before I know it.

 

“Yeah,” I agree with a content sigh, “except for the part where you made me hike, like, twenty miles to get to your house.”

 

“Okay, it was _not_ twenty miles.”

 

“Tell that to my aching back.” I lift myself off the bed and, to make a point, readjust my shoulder blades with a few subtle cracks. As I slide further down into his bed, however, I realize just how comfy it is. I mean, it’s not memory foam like my bed at home, but it sure beats the beds at school.

 

“You sure you’re alright down there?” I ask him quietly after a moment.

 

He pauses before replying, “Of course.” But I know him too well, and that pause was just long enough for me to reevaluate his answer – which I know for a fact is a lie.

 

I don’t have time to think before I’m scooting over and pulling the covers back. “Oi, Marco, you can sleep in here if you want,” I offer. It’s easier to see now, and I watch as Marco’s dark shadow rolls over to face the bed I’m currently occupying.

 

“It’s only a twin,” he sighs. “It’s kind of small for two people… don’t you think?”

 

“Marco,” I start again, this time with more firmness. “You get your ass in bed right now.”

 

He laughs, and even though I don’t want to, I smile.

 

“Well,” he says after a moment, “I guess it’s a little cold.”

 

When he gets in next to me, his feet brush up against mine for a split-second, and when he realizes he’s accidentally touched me, he jerks them away. Not quick enough though; my leg hairs prick upward and goose bumps start to form where his cold-ass foot touched me.

 

“You’re freezing,” I state, shoving more of the covers on top of him. “How the fuck is that even possible? You were down there for, like, two seconds.”

 

“Your concept of measurement is greatly skewed,” Marco laughs, rolling onto his side. I feel his breath grazing my nose and, once again, he’s so close I start to notice the little things… like the way his nose turns up just a bit on the end, or that he even has freckles on his eyelids.

 

There’s a lump in my throat and I can’t gulp it down, no matter how hard I try.

 

“Well,” Marco says tiredly, a yawn prying itself from his lips, “goodnight, Jean.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” I say nervously, because I completely forgot how tired I am due to our closeness. “Um. Night, Marco.”

 

He smiles breathlessly, his face grazed with exhaustion, and–

 

“Oh, God,” Marco says, jolting awake again as his feet accidentally touch mine. “I’m sorry, it’s just–”

 

“I know,” I laugh. “‘It’s only a twin.’”

 

He smiles, and as he closes his eyes again, I take one deep breath and muster whatever courage I’ve been holding back to ever-so casually drape my arm over his side.

 

We’re close enough for me to hear it when Marco’s breathing hitches.

 

“Uh,” he says after a moment, “Jean?”

 

“My arm’s uncomfortable,” I blurt. “I have to stretch it out or it gets cramped when I sleep.” _Wow, Jean. You’re a genius. That excuse was totally believable – not ridiculously lame at all… You’re hopeless._

 

“Oh, um, okay,” Marco replies.

 

Each word that leaves my lips is rushed. “I mean, I can move it if you want. If you’re, uh–”

 

“N-No, it’s fine,” he squeaks.

 

I can’t tell if it’s really alright or if he’s actually, like, strangely uncomfortable. I practically forced him into bed with me; I’m initiating what could be considered soft-core cuddling; if there are absolutely no mutual feelings whatsoever, I’m probably coercing my poor best friend into one of the most awkward situations of his life.

 

The thing is… he doesn’t move. Like, at all. His breathing returns to normal after a minute and – I could be making this up in my head, but he seems to lean toward me a little. Instinctively, I lean toward him, too.

 

And as I start to drift off, I swear I feel him holding me back.

* * *

 

Marco wakes me in the morning. I blink my eyes open, slowly at first until I’m staring up at him through heavy, half-closed lids. He stands over the bed, fully-dressed and showered, and as I breathe in his fresh scent, I realize that I’m probably the foulest smelling man currently residing in Jinae.

 

Natural light coming in the window above the bed makes Marco appear to be glowing, but his tired smile seems to do that for him, regardless of lighting. There’s something about him that just glows.

 

“Mom’s gone already,” Marco beams, “but she left us coffee. I can make breakfast if you want to start getting ready; I stuck a towel for you in the bathroom for your shower shower.”

 

Even though it’s muffled and tired because I’m still exhausted, I chuckle. “You trying to tell me I’m smelly?”

 

“I don’t need to _try_ and tell you anything,” Marco laughs openly, “you _know_ you’re smelly.”

 

“Woah, woah, woah,” I blink, sitting up in bed a little further before narrowing my eyes at him playfully. “Just because I’m smelly doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings… and right now, they’re hurt, Marco. They’re _hurt._ ”

 

“I mean, you’re welcome to perpetuate filth if that’s what you really want,” he grins. “But if you’re not into that… there’s also a razor in the bathroom.”

 

Self-consciously, I reach up to touch the blond hairs starting to come in along my jaw. Yeah, I need a shower. I roll out of bed, gather up some clothes from my bag, and walk past Marco out of his room.

 

Learning how to use a shower in someone else’s house is among the most difficult tasks ever invented. It’s like every faucet works differently – there is no consistency. I have to struggle for five minutes just to get the water the right temperature.

 

Marco’s shampoo selection is pretty scarce. There’s not much in the Old Spice bottle and the Herbal Essences is so empty that I wonder why he hasn’t thrown it out yet. But I see little water drops still trickling down the sides of Old Spice, which makes me think that’s what Marco’s been using. I reach up and run a hand through my dry, tawny hair and wonder if this shampoo is the key to getting the same smooth, flowing look Marco always has.

 

Needless to say, it is not. Despite a heavy application, my hair still feels like straw.

 

I finish showering quickly, dry off on the towel that smells like laundry detergent, and pick up the razor on the counter. It’s been a few days since I shaved and it shows – embarrassingly so. If I let it go any longer, I’ll end up looking like a patchy mountain man… and something tells me that “patchy mountain man” isn’t exactly Marco’s type.

 

Steam rises in the air, collecting on the mirror and fogging up the lights. A cool gust of fresh air hits me as I open the bathroom door and make my way down the hallway to the kitchen, where Marco is flipping French toast in a pan on the stove.

 

“Smells good,” I acknowledge.

 

“Mom’s recipe.” He flips the bread again before setting it on a stack of four other pieces on a platter to his right. Then, leaning back, he looks down his nose at the knobs and flicks the electric burner off. “Hope they don’t taste like trash. But, if they do, we can always just get something at the hospital. They’ve got a nice café there.”

 

“I’m sure this tastes better than any sort of hospital food,” I laugh as he sets the plate down. “Even if it _is_ from a pretentious café.”

 

“It’s not _that_ pretentious,” Marco mumbles, handing me a fork and knife.

 

We scarf down breakfast, have a cup of coffee each, and decide that the earlier we get down to the hospital, the better. It gets really packed in the early afternoon. Ten o’clock rolls around and we’re pulling our shoes on, sliding our arms through jacket sleeves, and bundling up in scarves and gloves. Marco insists I take his scarf again, and I don’t protest.

 

Even though it’s cold as balls, the sun is shining. Gotta count your blessings sometimes.

 

It doesn’t seem to take as long, getting back to the bus stop from Marco’s house, and I wonder why that is. At any rate, I don’t complain. We get to the bus stop in one piece and plop down on the bench inside the glass enclosure.

 

“The waiting game,” Marco sighs, foggy breath spilling from his lips. “I bet it takes them forty minutes to get a bus down here.”

 

“Wow, forty minutes. You must really be losing that optimistic charm,” I joke. “I’ll bet… twenty.”

 

But in the end we’re both wrong, because not even five minutes later, the sound of a loud engine and churning gears crests the distant hill. My head flips back and Marco’s eyes meet mine.

 

“No way.

 

I shake my head, smiling back. “No _fucking_ way.”

 

The bus pulls up in front of the stop and I let Marco lead the way onto the bus. He swipes his bus pass and I hand the driver two bucks for fare. We find an empty pair of seats a few rows back and breathe a sigh of relief that the bus wasn’t totally late and that we aren’t still stuck at the frigid bus stop.

 

“How far is the hospital from here?” I ask.

 

“Usually an hour,” he replies. “Sometimes more, sometimes less. It might take a bit longer today since the roads haven’t been plowed.” I stare past Marco out the window and watch as snow flurries in the air, swirling and rearranging with every gust of wind that blows.

 

“Sorry it takes so long,” he says apologetically, and when I look at him, he looks away quickly. “I know it takes forever to get anywhere around here, but–”

 

“No, it’s okay,” I smile, “really. I’m just happy to be here.”

 

He laughs. “On a rickety old bus?”

 

I deliver a swift kick to the back of his leg and roll my eyes, leaning away from him. “You know what I mean, dummy.” _I’m happy to be here, with you. Don’t make me say it._

 

He nods once, then turns his eyes upward at the window.

 

“I know,” he breathes.

* * *

 

Jinae Hospital looms over us as the bus comes to a stop a short distance from its sliding glass doors. A woman carrying a bouquet of flowers is heading inside as we stand and exit the bus, hesitating only a moment before pressing forward.

 

“It’s strange,” Marco thinks aloud, “that I haven’t been to this place in over a month, and yet over the summer, this place was like a second home to me.”

 

I almost don’t believe him when he says it. “You were here that often?”

 

He nods in response. “Mom and I both were. It was to the point where we would bring blankets and pillows and stay over five, six times a week.” There’s a pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “She hasn’t been as much lately.”

 

My chest pangs.

 

We follow a few men in hospital attire in through the front doors and pass the front desk where two old women smile in our direction. Marco offers them a small wave, and one looks over her glasses at the pair of us.

 

“Ruth and Dianne,” Marco whispers as we walk past. I can feel their eyes boring holes in the back of my head. “They love to gossip.” We start down a hallway toward a row of elevators. However, I nearly double back when the scent of coffee beans floods my senses, and I shoot a knowing look at Marco.

 

“It’s that pretentious café, isn’t it?”

 

“For the last time, I swear it’s not,” he chuckles, hitting the ‘up’ button on the elevators. “This is a hospital, you know. It’s not, like, a breeding ground for hippie, underground music snobs.”

 

Tapping a finger on my chin, I nod. “Point taken.”

 

The elevator doors open and we step on. Marco punches the button with a 4 above it and we rise from the ground floor upward.

 

“The ICU’s on this level,” he states. “Top floor.”

 

With a ding, the doors reopen, but everything looks different. I guess I hadn’t realized how bare hospitals until now. The main floor had been decorated with a little holiday spirit, but as we leave the elevator and start down another long, winding hallway, I shudder at how cold it all feels. The floors, walls, and ceilings are all a cold shade of white that do little to reflect the sunlight outside. One of the distant overhead lights flickers.

 

I haven’t been inside many hospitals in my life, but I know that this place isn’t like any I remember. The one in Trost that Klaudia had to go to that one time she broke her wrist at a tennis meet. I was only eight or nine at the time, but I remember the way the whole place glistened. The little room they brought us into was small, but warm… Warmer than this place.

 

A shiver creeps up my spine as we press forward. Marco says hello to a girl not much older than us sitting behind the receptionist desk. We stop for a minute to talk to her, and I read her nametag. Roselyn. She asks Marco about school and he pauses to introduce me as his roommate. I shake the girl’s hand – it, too, is icy. She smiles at me, but she looks tired. In fact, this whole place feels tired.

 

The thought of Marco spending an entire summer cooped up in here makes my stomach knot.

 

“If you’re looking for your brother, he’s in the same room,” she smiles.

 

“Thanks,” Marco replies kindly, then starts backing from the desk. He waves to her once before his eyes find mine. When he speaks again, his tone is much different; not as put-on as it had been when speaking with Roselyn. It’s almost… somber. “Alright, let’s go.”

 

I don’t say anything, I just nod and follow him.

 

We stop at Room 341, the door of which is closed. Just as we’re about to open up the door, a team of doctors rushes around the corner. They appear to be speaking quickly, and we both hear the words “patient unstable.” I steal a glance at Marco and notice the look in his eyes.

 

Complete and utter fear rushes to his face. His hand clutches the doorknob like he’s afraid they’ll pry it from his hands…

 

But they pass by us, and continue on down another hall without a second glance.

 

Marco’s chest heaves. I don’t even need to ask to know exactly why he reacted the way he did. Living in a constant fear that someday, something might happen to the one you love – it’s enough to drive someone crazy.

 

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “let’s see Angelo.”

 

He nods, but I can tell that he’s still shaken. He opens the door and, with a deep breath, we walk inside.

 

The room itself is much cozier than what I had been expecting. It’s not huge, but there’s definitely room to sit down and stay a while. On top of that, it seems that Marco’s mother has truly outdone herself in the realm of Christmas decorations. There’s a small tree set up in one corner. Across from the bed, there’s a wreath done up in holly, and just beside it hangs a photographic rendering of Jesus Christ, himself.

 

I sigh, because I’m relieved that they’ve made this place livable. It feels more like a home than a hospital room.

 

My eyes travel the walls until they wrap back around, landing on a small boy lying in bed. His arms are attached to machines that occasionally beep, a monitor that charts a heart rate, and hooked to his nose is a breathing apparatus.

 

“Angelo,” Marco grins, though his eyebrows crease in the middle. I can see the worry in his face, despite the ever-apparent joy to be reunited with his brother. He takes a seat at the side of his bed and reaches for the small boy’s wrist. “Oh, god. Mom tried to give you a trim, didn’t she.” At his own words, he laughs, and his fingertips trail along the bangs of his painfully-asymmetric haircut.

 

I huff, forcing myself to take a step closer. I scan his face for any sign of freckles, and am amazed to find that, yes, little constellations chart his own cheeks – and I’m even more amazed that, upon further inspection, a few of them appear identical to Marco’s. They’ve got the same long, pretty eyelashes. His hair is lighter, just as it was in the picture on Marco’s nightstand. This boy’s face looks older than I imagined though. Even though he’s young, I can tell he’s not a little kid anymore. He’s growing up – and he’s missing out on it.

 

Marco smiles up at me as I stand beside the place where he sits.

 

“This is Angelo,” he says.

 

My arms, which have been folded across my chest, fall to my sides before I bring one up to rest on Marco’s shoulders. He looks back down at his brother.

 

“Hi, Angelo,” I say dumbly. I know he won’t reply, even before I speak. He’s more of a shell than anything; he can breathe, but only barely. That invisible weight Marco carries around with him on a daily basis starts to shift, and I can feel its pressure on my shoulders now, as well.

 

 _God, this is so fucked,_ I think – because it totally is, and because I don’t want to think anything deeper. Cracking now, in front of Marco in his brother’s hospital room, would be the worst thing I could do. It wouldn’t only be humiliating for me, it would be humiliating for him, too.

 

I know that if I was Marco, I wouldn’t want sympathy tears. I would want someone to be there, to steady me.

 

My grip on his shoulder tightens.

 

 _You can be weak if you need to be,_ I want to tell him, but I can’t. I don’t have time to before his hand is covering mine. His hand, which is soft and gentle, is also warm.

 

And even though the room is filled with so much pain, I can still feel him like a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter. *wipes sweat from brow* I haven't had time to fully edit this, but within the next few hours, it should be pretty much good. But I was tired of waiting and I'm sure you guys were too, haha. Hope you enjoyed it, and sorry for all the sads! 
> 
> ♡


	13. all i have to give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes before you read:  
> 1\. I'm so SO sorry for the wait! I thought that I would have more time to write while I was on vacation in Florida, but I had zero. So that's why it took longer than it should have.  
> 2\. I make reference to [jeanlubipieguski's wonderful drawings](http://jeanlubipieguski.tumblr.com/post/60608022360/after-watching-22th-episode-i-feel-i-need-to-draw) in this chapter.  
> 3\. FINALLY I GOT TO WRITE A NOT TERRIBLY SAD CHAPTER. I'm really excited about that.  
> 4\. [I made a Marco playlist in case you didn't see on tumblr](http://8tracks.com/shingekinoboyfriends/teenage-dweebus-a-marco-playlist)  
> 5\. Read and enjoy. <3

_“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock…”_

The old radio on the kitchen counter is on, a Christmas music channel at full volume. I hum along as I unbundle a string of lights for the tree; Jean stares at me with a scowl on his face as he holds the other end, while I move away, pulling the cord so it’s all untangled. The tree is already propped up in a stand in the middle of the living room, soon to be moved to the corner.

 

Mom is in the kitchen baking cookies, singing along as she happily drops big spoonfuls of cookie dough onto the pan to put into the oven. She’s been up since six, making extra to bring some in for the staff at the hospital who take care of Angelo.

 

“Why do you look so angry?” I ask with a laugh, watching as Jean stares me down from across the room.

 

“Why do you look so happy?” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest, still holding the lights in his left hand. He’s wearing a simple blue sweater (the one I specifically told him to pack when he was concerned about impressing Mom) and jeans and his socks don’t match today. His hair is still messy from sleep, with a big cowlick right on the left side, next to his ear. It’s cute though, so I don’t tell him about it.

 

“Because it’s Christmas time,” I reply, raising my eyebrow at him. “Do you not like Christmas, too? I thought it was just Thanksgiving.”

 

“I hate all the holidays,” he grumbles, averting his eyes to look at the floor.

 

I’m about to ask why, but then I try to put myself in his shoes. First, I imagine him spending Christmas getting gifts that are nothing like what he wanted because his parents didn’t notice or probably even read his Christmas list; then, I imagine him spending New Years alone while his parents had their friends over to use that Entertainment Dining Room that they had in their house. I look at Jean with  sympathy now, and he just scoffs and rolls his eyes, but I can see his fingers picking on the strings of his sweater sleeve and I know that it bothers him.

 

“Well, you’re going to have a good Christmas and New Years this year,” I promise him with a smile. I start to wrap the lights around the tree as the song changes to another. _Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town_ starts next, but it’s a cover sang by Bruce Springsteen so it sounds a little crusty. Mom loves it, though. She has a Bruce Springsteen record somewhere in the box by the record player.

 

Jean lets out a sigh as he helps me wrap the lights over the tree. Once we finish, we start on another bundle and repeat this step three times until the whole tree is covered in lights.

 

“Would you like some cookies?” Mom asks, setting a plate full of fresh cookies for us to grab. “Let me know if they’re any good or not.” She winks at us and Jean flushes a little, picking one up and taking a bite.

 

“They’re awesome!” he says, grabbing another as I take one. “You’re a really good cook Giuliana.”

 

Mom laughs at that, her cheeks turning a little pink with pride. “Oh, you’re too sweet, Jean,” she says and this makes him grin. I roll my eyes and nibble on my cookie, grabbing a box of ornaments for the tree and opening it. “If only my son was as sweet as you.”

 

“Marco? He’s the nicest guy I know.”

 

_Da-bump._

 

My heart stutters and I’m glad my back is facing them.  It’s such a simple compliment, but it’s enough to turn my heart into a sputtering mess. Lately, I feel like I can’t even control myself, because sometimes I find myself leaning closer and closer to him, without thinking. And when I snap to, both of us are blushing and can’t make eye contact for a good fifteen minutes after.

 

“My Marco?” Mom says dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Oh, why, I suppose that I raised him right, then.”

 

“ _Mom_ ,” I whine now, starting to get embarrassed by her fishing for compliments. Jean laughs and moves to grab another cookie before lazily walking back to me to help me move the tree to the corner and plug it in.

 

Next we go through all of the 10 boxes of different ornaments that we have to decorate it with. There’s an old torn up box full of homemade ones; we have some from projects that Angelo and I made in elementary school, we have some of the store bought ones, and a few that we got when we visited Disney World when we were younger.

 

Jean picks one up to examine it closer. It’s a macaroni wheel that I made in the second grade and it’s painted a light blue color and covered in glitter.

 

“I made one of these when I was a kid,” he says.

 

“Really?” I ask, watching as he lets it dangle in front of his face for a moment longer. “Do you still have yours?”

 

“Nah, my parents don’t keep that stuff. They worry too much about clutter.” He shrugs and moves over to place it on the tree, near the top, right in the center.

 

“Your parents would _hate_ it here then,” I tell him, hanging up one of our Disney ornaments that features Woody and Buzz from _Toy Story_. “My mom is a hoarder. She never throws anything away. I have to clean up when she’s not home, otherwise, we’d have too much stuff to even be able to live here.”

 

“Don’t listen to him, Jean. Marco doesn’t clean.”

 

I glance over my shoulder at Mom with an innocent look on my face. She rolls her eyes and laughs, putting another pan of cookies into the oven to bake. She sets a timer and move the other cookies that have cooled down into a tupperware to bring to the hospital later in the afternoon.

 

Jean and I decorate the whole tree together; he asks about a few ornaments and laughs at others. While we decorate, Mom finishes baking all of the cookies which ends up being three huge containers full – one for the ICU staff, one to pass out to the neighbors, and the last for our family Christmas at my grandparents house next week (though both Mom and I decided not to go this year, because it feels wrong without Angelo and the last thing we want is the sympathetic looks). And even then, there is still a large plate with a stack of cookies for Jean and I to enjoy.

 

“This is the best tree we’ve had in years,” Mom says, coming around the corner and into the living room to admire it. I turn to Jean with a smile on my lips, to find that he has one, too. “Stand in front of it! I want a picture of this.”

 

She rushes to her room to grab her camera, and I give Jean a sheepish look and reach out to smooth his cowlick over. Even if I find it cute, I know that he would never forgive me for letting Mom take a picture with it there. As I smooth it down, our eyes meet and my chest does a flip, so I offer a slight laugh, but it sounds as nervous as I feel.

 

“You had hair sticking up over here,” I tell him, and I can’t help but notice how pink his cheeks get. “Are you blushing?”

 

His eyes widen to the size of Mom’s special dinner plates and he pulls away from me quickly, leaving my hand frozen mid-air. He coughs into his fist and then touches his cheeks, as if this is surprising information to him.

 

“No I was not blushing, Marco,” he says now, “god.”

 

I laugh and he sighs, looking away with a scowl on his face as his cheeks slowly turn back to their normal color.

 

“You were blushing,” I tell him and he swats my hand away as I try to poke at his cheek.

 

“No, I was just surprised by how motherly you were,” he says with a roll of his eyes now. A slow smile spreads across my face and I manage to poke his cheek once, making him look up at me.

 

“I am basically your mom, aren’t I?” He gives me a weird look, raising one eyebrow high and squinting at me. “I help your with your laundry, I nag you about leaving your dirty clothes everywhere…”

 

“You make me do my damn homework when I would rather be sleeping,” he adds, but he’s smiling now, too. “God, you’re Mama Marco.”

 

Mom runs back into the living room, camera in hand. It’s digital, but it’s still pretty old. It was my Christmas present like, 5 years ago, and she still keeps it. Even if this past year she’s slowed down because of so many things going wrong, Mom always takes pictures. All around our house are photo albums and framed pictures from family vacations and summer camping trips.

 

“Okay! Are you guys ready?” she asks, giving us a huge smile as she holds the camera up to take the picture.

 

Jean and I move closer together, putting an arm around each other’s shoulders. I lift my chin, smiling; beside me, Jean smiles, as well. Then, I feel his hand leave my shoulder just as Mom’s about to take the picture; he gives me bunny ears at the very last second.

 

“Jean!” I shout, pulling away and laughing at him. He’s laughing, too, trying to block my playful slaps to his shoulder, leaning away from me.

 

The flash goes again and we both look at Mom.

 

“Oh, that’s a good one!” Mom says excitedly, turning the camera off. She puts it into her purse and sets it on the counter. “Do you boys need anything? I’m going to the hospital to give out the cookies and visit with Angelo for a bit.”

 

Jean and I exchange a look and shrug before I tell Mom, “Nah, we’re okay.”

 

“Do you want us to come with you?” Jean asks, and I swear I feel my heart start to swell up.

 

Ever since we arrived a few days ago, Jean has come with me every day to visit Angelo in the hospital. I can tell he’s a little awkward when he talks to him, or maybe it’s just that I talk to him too easily. But I’m so grateful. Without Jean, my entire break would have been spent in the hospital room, sad and alone.

 

It’s nice having him with me. Whatever nerves I had before about showing him about my life outside of Trost are gone. I think he likes it more, too, though he doesn’t say it exactly.

 

“You boys have gone every day so far,” she says now, offering him a sincere smile. “Stay here today and relax. Thank you, Jean. It’s very kind to offer, but you two are home on break to rest from school and stress, to try to get some rest.”

 

He nods and she smiles, ruffling both of our heads, mussing our hair up, and getting herself bundled up in sweaters and coats and a warm scarf before she says goodbye and heads out to the car with her tupperware full of cookies for the hospital staff.

 

“I think she just wanted some alone time with him,” I say, blowing upward loudly and blowing the hairs off of my forehead thanks to her messing my hair up.

 

Jean moves to plop down on the couch, admiring the tree in front of us. He sits slouched down, his legs open and knees bent; from this angle, I can see that one of his mismatching socks has a small hole in the side of it.

 

“Well,” he says finally, his eyes moving up to meet mine, “what now?”

 

“We could watch a movie?” I suggest with a shrug of my shoulders; he responds with a shrug, too. I sit down on the couch beside him and grab the remote, turning the TV on. We flip through channels for a good ten minutes before I find _Elf_ , one of the best Christmas movies of all time.

 

The opening sequence clearly has Jean giving me a dirty look.

 

“It’s got Will Ferrell in it!” I tell him, turning the volume up when he groans. “It’s funny, you’re gonna love it. I promise.”

 

“What if I hate it?”

 

“Then you can have all of my share of cookies.”

 

He grins at me and stretches out, resting his legs over top of my lap. I swallow nervously, but he seems completely at ease, so I try to act normal. _Don’t think too hard about it,_ I tell myself, because the last thing that I need right now is to get worked up over the physical contact and get an unfortunate  boner. God, how would I ever begin to explain?

 

As the movie plays, Jean starts to warm up to it. He even chuckles a little at a few parts, though I catch him smiling almost the whole time. Half way through, I know he’s just trying to act unamused to get my cookies.

 

Nearing the end of the movie, I find myself laughing really hard. It’s at the part where Buddy the Elf’s dad had the famous author, played by Peter Dinklage, come in to pitch an idea for a book, and Buddy continues to call him an Elf until he basically beats the crap out of him.

 

“Oh my God,” I say between my laughter as the scene plays on, “that’s you, Jean.”

 

Jean turns to give me a hard look, one eyebrow cocked up sharply and his lips set in a firm line. “Fuck you, Marco,” he says with a very serious face.

 

But I’m laughing even harder now and I manage to breathlessly spit out, “You’re an _angry elf_ oh my god!”

 

“I fucking hate Christmas,” he replies with a sigh.

 

When I can finally control my laughter again, I chance a glance at him. He’s smiling, watching the movie play on, so I know he’s not really mad at me. About twenty minutes later, it finally ends and I turn the TV off, leaving us in the darkness aside from the windows letting in a little light, but it’s a dark day outside because it’s been snowing since noon.

 

“Hey, Marco?”

 

I jump a little, because his voice sounds closer than it had a moment ago. There’s movement against the couch as he moves his legs down from my lap and moves closer to me. My heart is beating really fast now, and I swallow hard to try and contain myself.

 

“Y-yeah?” I answer back, my voice a shaky whisper.

 

“What do you want for Christmas?” he asks and I finally manage to look at him, but I know I’m blushing because of how close he is. He’s got his elbow on the top of the couch, using it to hold his head up, just a few inches away from me. His knee is pointed and resting against my thigh and I swear to god, even if it’s only this much, my stomach is flipping like crazy.

 

“U-um,” I stutter a bit, feeling stupid for being so flushed over something so small, “nothing. I don’t want anything. You don’t need to get me anything.”

 

“Come on, Marco! There has to be something you want,” he tries again, poking my side until I squirm away from him a little with a light laugh. “Seriously. I have to get you a present – you’re the only person important enough for me to.”

 

I blink a few times and this time, it’s his turn to blush a little.

 

“Well… then I don’t want you to _get_ me anything,” I reply. “Make me something.”

 

He seems to ponder this for a moment, pursing his lips and looking toward the ceiling. I watch him, taking in his features while he’s not looking at me. His pointed nose, his thin lips and his prominent chin. His beautiful hazel eyes with flecks of green in the sunlight and how his hair swoops down to his eyes when it’s messy and how it’s sandy on top and darker on bottom. I realize that I’ve started to memorize every detail that I can, because whenever we’re apart, I want to know that I remember him exactly as he is.

 

And this is the most terrifying realization that I’ve ever had.

 

“What about you?” I ask after he finally nods and returns his gaze to meet mine.

 

“You can make me something, too,” he says and I groan, which only causes him to laugh. “What?”

 

“I’m not good at arts and crafts, Jean.”

 

“I didn’t say it had to be _good_ ,” Jean replies with another laugh. “If it sucks then at least I can laugh about it.”

 

“Jean!”

 

He laughs again and shakes his head. “I’m just kidding! I wouldn’t laugh, I promise. But just make me something cool. Like from the heart or whatever.”

 

I raise an eyebrow at him, “From the heart? Jean, I think Reiner and Bertholdt’s love for chick flicks has finally consumed your soul.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Marco!”

 

We both laugh until we’re holding our sides. Even if it’s only been a few days, we both agree that we miss our gay roommates from college – though we don’t miss their late night scandals keeping us awake. We even laugh about Reiner’s apron; Jean literally cackles when I told him that I had been wearing the apron for like, at least an hour before he got there.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Jean says as he wipes tears from his eyes.

 

"…gives me strength,” I add and that only makes him burst out laughing harder.

 

It’s one of Mom’s encouragements that is hanging over the TV set, right in front of us. _Jesus gives me strength_ is literally sewn on material with flowers around the boarder, framed and hanged for display. She made it when I was a really little kid, so it’s been around for my entire life.

 

“So now what?” Jean asks.

 

I shrug, because there’s not much to do around here. “Wanna play cards?”

 

And somehow, 45 minutes later, I’m putting down all of my cards in a neat pile once again being claimed the winner. Jean glares at me hard, and I ignore it, shuffling the deck in my hands.

 

The only two card games Jean knew were Go Fish (which he was really bad at and didn’t even manage to win once) and War (which he one once because of the luck of his cards). I shuffle the cards until they’re ready to be dealt again, and look up at him.

 

“Do you want me to teach you a different game?” I offer. “Maybe you’ll be able to beat me with beginners luck or something.”

 

Jean reaches across the kitchen table to punch my shoulder. “You’re such a little shit,” he grumbles under his breath and I can’t help the smug smile that’s on my face. “Fine, teach me some other game. I don’t have any luck with these ones, anyway.”

 

“How about Old Maid?” I suggest and he sighs but offers a nod in response. “It’s pretty easy.”

 

“Good, easy is what I need,” he says and I laugh at him.

 

I deal out the cards evenly between the two of us and explain how to play. I set the three Queens that I had to take out from the deck on the side of the table and we start the game. It goes by pretty quickly and in five minutes, I’ve only got a few cards left. But the Queen is in my hand, and if Jean manages to not pick it, then I’ll lose.

 

During his next turn, lucky for me, he _does_ pick the Queen.

 

“You’re cheating!” Jean scowls at me and I freeze, looking up at him and blinking in shock.

 

“No, I’m not!”

 

Jean makes a noise like “tch” and turns his face away from me. I sigh, because now he’s just being a sore loser and if I had known he would be so upset losing at card games, I wouldn’t have even suggested we play.

 

“I’m not cheating,” I repeat, my voice small. “You saw me take out the other Queens, Jean.”

 

Jean angrily leans forward to rip my cards out of my hand, but I hold them up out of his reach. He throws himself over the table then and grabs my arm and somehow, ends up practically on me. With his added weight, the chair tips over and we fall on the floor, the cards from my hands fluttering onto the kitchen floor beside us.

 

I roll over so that I’m on top and pin him down before he can grab my cards from my floor. And that’s when we both realize the situation that we’re in.

 

I’m on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his arms together using one hand above his head. Our eyes meet for a second and both of us are blushing so hard that our ears and necks are red. I swallow hard, my eyes widening as I realize that _holy crap I’m on TOP OF JEAN KIRSCHTEIN_ and in a very provocative way.

 

“Oh god,” I say as I jump up from him, moving away quickly. “Oh god, Jean, I’m sorry.”

 

He gets up slowly and for a few minutes, we can’t really look at each other. I’m so embarrassed that I lost control, and I keep swallowing to try and calm down but there’s a lump in my throat that just isn’t going away.

 

I feel like I did the night after Jean kissed me. My stomach lurches and I want to cry because the last thing I want is for him to be awkward around me.

 

“Sorry, Marco,” Jean says and I finally look up, but I don’t dare meet his eye. He’s holding up my cards, a weak smile on his thin lips. “Guess you… weren’t cheating after all. Sorry.”

 

“I-it’s okay,” I reply, biting my lip. “I’m sorry for um, doing _that_.”

 

“It’s okay.” After a minute, he picks up the chair and puts the cards back on the table, putting them all into one deck. “Maybe we shouldn’t play cards anymore. I’m kinda a sore loser.”

 

I find myself smiling a little, because he _is_ a sore loser. “You kind of are,” I agree and he rolls his eyes. “But that’s okay. I’m a sore loser to Angelo, too.”

 

He smiles at me and I smile back, the awkwardness evaporating immediately. We spent the rest of the afternoon playing board games like Battleship and Sorry, which he manages to best me at a few times. It’s not until around 7 that Mom returns home and she makes us a taco dinner and puts us both to work helping.

 

By eleven, we’re both cramming ourselves into my twin-sized bed in my room. I lay on my side so we have more room, and Jean is behind me, on his side, too. My eyes close, exhausted from the long day, when I hear him say my name quietly.

 

“Marco?”

 

“Hmm?” I mumble sleepily in response.

 

Jean is quiet for a long time then. I open one eye and roll over onto my back to look at him, to make sure he’s still awake.

 

“Jean?” I ask and he turns his head to look at me through the darkness, but the most we can make our are each other’s silhouettes. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” he whispers back. “Sorry. I was just thinking, is all.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Just… this is gonna sound really fucking stupid, so don’t laugh at me.” I nod, rolling over so that I’m on my other side, facing him now. “You remember how, back at the dorms, we were talking about how we probably have parallel versions of us and how we’re best friends in all of them?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, prompting him to continue.

 

“Do you think… that like… we’re meant to meet the people that are in our lives?”

 

I pause to think about this for a moment before answering. “You mean, kind of like the idea of soul mates?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

I hum for a moment, thinking this over, too. “Well, I think that the people who impact us the most are meant to show up there. People who touch our lives and make them better, or teach us lessons that make us better as human beings, I think that those people were always meant to show up in our lives.”

 

“So, we were meant to become best friends?” he asks.

 

“I think so,” I reply honestly. “I think we both needed each other in our lives. You said the other day that I helped you out of a dark hole you were in. Well, you helped me out of mine, too. I think that we met at just the right time, to be just what the other needed.”

 

It’s quiet for a long time. I start to think that maybe he fell asleep, so I let my eyes close, too. Then, just as I’m starting to doze off, he speaks again.

 

“I’m really glad that I met you,” he whispers so quietly that I barely even hear him.

 

I don’t reply, but I reach out and move into him, both of us adjusting so that we’re closer together. Our breathing patterns match up, and I can hear his heart beating in his chest, matching the same beat as mine. I smile, my eyes closing again, and slowly fall into a deep sleep with Jean holding me and me holding him.

* * *

_Bing!_

 

I glance over at Jean, who is sitting on our home computer, checking his school e-mail. The computer is one of those really old desktops with minesweeper and solitaire on it, and the screen comes in a little fuzzy. He clicks the new e-mail open and turns to me with a big smile on his face.

 

“Hey, Marco,” he says, “our grades are in.”

 

“Really?” I jump off of the couch and head over, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. Jean’s grades are proudly on display, showing two A’s, one A- and a B. His GPA overall is enough to land him on the Dean’s List. “Wow, Jean! You did really good!”

 

He has this look on his face like he’s going to say something cocky, but he doesn’t. Instead, a slow blush creeps up his neck and he looks down at his hands in his lap. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to.

 

I put a hand on his shoulder and he looks up at me; I smile. “I’m really proud of you, Jean.”

 

A slow smile spreads across his face, but he’s trying to hide it by biting his bottom lip. I have to look away, turning my attention back to the screen, because he looks _too cute_ when he’s making that face at me. The last thing that I want is another awkward moment like last night when we were playing cards.

 

And by ‘last thing I want’ I mean the only thing I _want_ , but minus the awkward part.

 

“Let’s see your grades,” Jean says, clicking the logout button at the top right-hand side of the screen. He moves out of the chair and I sit down in it, typing my e-mail address and password in and waiting impatiently for it to load. “I bet you did really good. You studied so hard, man.”

 

The page loads and I click the e-mail, going to another page that has my grades posted.

 

“Holy shit,” Jean whispers from behind me, leaning closer so he can squint at the screen and get a better look.  His face is so close that if I turned my head, I would be able to brush my lips against his skin; his chest is leaning against my shoulders. I can’t breathe properly. “Marco, your GPA is 4.0!”

 

“Y-yeah,” I whisper because I can’t trust my voice with him so close and his wonderful scent filling my senses.

 

He finally moves away as I close the browser and turn the computer off. By the time I rejoin him on the couch, he’s already stretch all the way across it lazily scratching at his side.

 

“Hey,” I say, making him look up at me. “Get dressed. I’m going to take you out to dinner tonight.”

 

Jean’s eyes about bulge out of his head. “What? Why?”

 

I give him a weird look for being so worked up about it. “Because I’m proud of you for doing so well. You deserve it.” He slowly gets up from the couch, rubbing the back of his neck the way he does whenever he gets nervous or tongue tied. “And also because I don’t want to eat another peanut butter sandwich.”

 

“Yeah, I’m down for food that doesn’t have peanut butter involved,” Jean laughs and I grin, pushing him to my room so he can change. I’m dressed already, but he’s been dilly dallying around the house all day, still in his pajamas.

 

I pull on my boots while I wait for him to get dressed. He emerges from my room about ten minutes later wearing dark wash jeans and my old t-shirt that I gave to him. He smiles and puts his hands into his pockets.

 

“We’re not going any place fancy, right?” he asks, motioning to his outfit. “Like, this is okay?”

 

“Yeah, you look fine,” I reply, handing his coat to him. Once we’re both bundled up for the cold outside, we head out, locking the door behind us. Mom isn’t due home for another hour from work, but she also wanted to stop by the hospital real quick to check on Angelo. “So what sounds good? Mexican or pizza?”

 

Jean mulls over his choices before finally answering, “Mexican. I could totally go for some burritos.”

 

“As long as you don’t get beans in it, then that’s fine with me.” Jean glowers at me and I laugh. “What? I _do_ have to share a bed with you, you know. I’m not subjecting myself to that kind of treatment.”

 

“Excuse you,” Jean says with a serious expression on his face, “my farts don’t even have a smell to them.”

 

I snort and he glares harder. “Jean, I’m your roommate. You don’t have to lie to me, okay? I know that you just always blame it on Reiner.”

 

Jean’s face turns bright red and I can’t help but laugh at him. He shoves me, a little too hard, and I end up falling into the snow. I shake the snow flakes from my hair as he rushes over to help me up, trying to hide his snickering.

 

When he offers me his hand to help me up, I take it, and yank him into the snow bank beside me.

 

“Was that really necessary?” Jean asks, brushing snow off of the top of his head as he sighs. “Damn it’s cold.”

 

“It was necessary since you pushed me,” I reply innocently before dumping a huge pile of snow on top of him again. He throws a bunch back at my face, making both of us laugh as I try to shield myself from it but fail miserably.  “Oh god, okay, okay! I give up. Truce?”

 

I hold up my hand for him to shake, but he slaps it away. Then, in seconds, he’s sitting on my stomach and dumping as much snow as he can lift in his arms over top of me. I wriggle underneath him, feeling my face heat up, and my struggling ends up knocking him sideways, and then he falls, face first, toward me.

 

His mouth collides against my jaw and hurts both of us.

 

Yet somehow, all I seem to be able to register is the fact that Jean’s lips touched my skin and I feel like I’m on fire.

 

“Shit, sorry Marco!” he says as he rubs his mouth. “God, that fucking hurt.”

 

I rub at my jaw tenderly, but mostly I’m just trying to make the burning feeling go away. My stomach is curling with excitement from the new touch, and that leads to craving more. It’s like I’m right back to square one, the night of the party when he first kissed me.

 

How much time do I need to not feel this way when he touches me?

 

“It’s okay,” I reply, even though it really isn’t and my skin is _still_ tingling. “Is your mouth okay?”

 

He nods and finally stands, helping me up, as well. We take turns brushing the snow off each others clothes before we continue on our way to the bus stop. Jean scoops up some ice to numb the pain on his lips. When he accidentally kissed me (though I doubt anyone else would even call it a kiss; it was more like a face smashing against another persons face), he apparently bit the inside of his cheek.

 

As we walk, I lift my hand to touch the skin where his lips had been. This simple touch is enough to wreck me. What was once a little, innocent crush has developed into something bigger. And it is so scary, because I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever.

 

I feel it eating away at me. Keeping it a secret from Jean is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, because I want someone to talk to about it – I _need_ to talk to someone about this. But my best friend is off-limits, because it’s all about him that I need to talk about.

 

“Marco? Are you hiding something from me?”

 

My eyes snap to him immediately, breaking my train of thought.

 

“Wh-what?” I stutter, staring at him wide-eyed.

 

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” he says with a small shrug. “You’re my best friend, man. You can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

 

“I-it’s nothing,” I reply quickly, scratching my head for something to do that looks natural. “Maybe I just didn’t get enough sleep. I’m kind of tired lately.”

 

He gives me a look like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he drops it. My stomach drops and I bite my lip, keeping up with him but feeling like I want to vomit. How much longer do I have to live with this? He’ll find out eventually, I’m sure. Or worse, if he never does and I have to continue to feel this way forever, with my feelings for him making my heart ache every time I see him do something cute or funny, or get too close to me.

 

I’m shaken from my thoughts again when I hear him shouting my name.

 

“Marco, the bus is here already!” Jean says, and he starts running. We’re a pretty good distance from it, but if we don’t catch it, we’ll be stuck in the cold for another half hour to an hour. “Hurry! We gotta catch it!”

 

I start running beside him, little puffs of air leaving my lungs quickly from between my lips. I can see my breath in the cold air around us.

 

Jean reaches the bus first, just in time, and pays, holding the doors until I make it. I’m so out of breath that I  actually do use the handrail to get on, sliding my bus pass and walking to the back to sit next to Jean.

 

“So what’s this place called?” Jean asks as the bus takes us closer to the main parts of town.

 

“Um… I would tell you if I knew how to say it right,” I tell him and he just laughs a little. “My Spanish is rusty. But it’s good, I swear. I’ve eaten here plenty of times.”

 

“I’ll tell you how it’s pronounced when we get there. I took Spanish all throughout high school.”

 

“Really?” I ask. “Cool! Yeah, I’ve never known what it’s actually called. It’ll be nice to actually have a name for it.”

 

Jean gives me a confident smile in response.

 

The bus ride is fairly quick, because the restaurant is at the edge of town. I pull on his coat sleeve as I stand, pulling him with me, and we get off. Once the bus pulls away, we cross the street and walk a block until we’re standing in front of it.

 

It’s a little place with not many tables, and the name is in a cursive font on top of a background that’s the Mexico flag colors. It’s got an open sign in the window blinking at us, and I can already smell the meat from outside.

 

“Ta…Takuria. Takuria Jaylesco.” Jean glances at me and shrugs. “That’s the name. Takuria Jaylesco.”

 

It’s at this exact moment that a man is taking the trash out the side door. He laughs loudly and looks around the corner at us; instinctively, I move a little closer to Jean because I’m not sure why he’s looking at us like that.

 

“No, no, no,” he says with a thick accent, “it’s _Taquería Jalisco_.”

 

Jean turns red almost immediately. “W-well, yeah, that’s what I meant to say!”

 

I pat his shoulder as we step in. “It’s okay, Jean. I didn’t know how to say it, either.”

 

“I knew how to say it!” he huffs, his cheeks and ears still red from embarrassment. “I just… I just needed another second to remember how to say it with the right accent is all.”

 

I smile as he walks up to the hostess and tells her that we have two in our party. She picks up two menus and we follow her further inside; she sits us at the window, at a table for two. Part of me is thinking that this is a date, and I wonder if he is concerned by how date-like it feels.

 

We sit at the restaurant for close to two hours together, munching on chips and salsa, even after we’d finished our meals. I tell Jean how proud I am of him, and he says the same to me. We talk about everything and anything – how we miss our friends back at school, how we’re almost excited to go back, and how much we’re happy to have the other in our lives.

 

During dinner, Reiner texts Jean and asks what our plans for New Years is.

 

“Nothing, really. My mom always goes to bed early,” I tell him. “Do they want to hang out?”

 

“Yeah, he said they could pick us up and take us to Bertholdt’s house for the night,” Jean explains, reading the text to me. “Want to?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds fun!”

 

Jean types out his reply and sends it, setting his phone back on the table. We talk for a few more minutes before Reiner replies again, a simple “ok!” message. As the phone vibrates on the table top, I glance at it.

 

The background on his phone is a picture of us together, a few weeks ago. It was the night he took me bowling to cheer me up and help take my mind off of everything. After we finished our first game and I had won, we’d taken a picture together. It was a bad picture – Jean had just held the phone at arms length away, only getting our faces in the shot, our cheeks smushed together to fit together. But I’m grinning and he’s got a big, goofy smile on his face, too, and we look so happy.

 

I blink after a moment, watching him click the button at the top to make the screen go black.

 

“I like your background,” I say, and he gives me a questioning look before opening his phone again, seeing it himself.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Jean says quietly, shrugging. “It was a good picture.”

 

“We should go bowling again sometime.” I dip a chip into the salsa, putting it into my mouth all in one bite. My nose wrinkles and I gulp down a bunch of my iced tea to cool down my tongue.

 

“Yeah, it was fun. Even if you _are_ better than I am at it,” he says and I grin at him innocently. “You’re a natural at literally everything you pick up.”

 

“No, I’m not. I’m bad at plenty of things,” I reply, taking another sip of my tea because my mouth feels like it’s on fire. “I can’t do anything with music, and I’m bad at art. Basically anything creative, count me out.”

 

“Have you even ever tried to play an instrument? Or to draw?” he counters, raising an eyebrow at me.

 

“Yeah, in middle school. I took band instead of choir and I played the um, the saxophone. But I was horrible at it. And I took art classes in the 7th grade and let me tell you something, Jean,” I say, leaning forward for effect, “I can’t draw. Anything. Especially cars and city views.”

 

Jean laughs, “You were a kid, though! Most kids can’t draw or play instruments without practice.”

 

“I swear, I’m just bad at it.”

 

“I want to see you draw,” Jean says now, a devious grin on his face because he knows that it’s the one thing he is definitely better at than me. “Draw me something for Christmas. I don’t care about a present. Please?”

 

I groan, but he’s giving me this look and I can’t say no to him when he’s doing that face.

 

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But you can’t laugh.”

 

“I won’t!” he says, but he’s grinning like a fool and I know that he will.

 

I pay the bill and leave a generous tip and we head back outside to the cold. It’s nearing eight o’clock. We manage to catch one of the last buses to get back to my house, and we sit in the back again.

 

It takes us on a long loop around the entire town before it starts to round back toward the neighborhood where I live. I look out the window, watching the winter scenery fly by; everything looks so pretty covered in fresh snow.

 

I feel something hit my shoulder.

 

Jean’s head ducked down, leaning against me. I can tell he’s fallen asleep because I start to hear soft snores and earlier, I’d seen him nodding off once or twice. My heart aches, and I lean my head back and rest my cheek against the top of his head. If I stay like this, and close my eyes, I can almost imagine what it’s like to be his boyfriend.

 

We would ride the bus together like this, with our heads resting together. We would hold hands on our way to classes on campus. I would help him with his laundry all the time, and he would help me study still; we would cuddle on the couch and watch Netflix together, wrapped up in each other. We would kiss late at night, under the blankets. We would attend parties together and stay in the corner, kissing and holding each other and not caring about any other soul in the room.

 

And I know that it’s never going to happen.

 

I don’t realize that I’m crying until a tear falls down my cheek and to my chin, dripping into Jean’s hair. My eyes snap open, tearing me away from my fantasy, and I wipe at my face quickly.

 

I don’t let myself close my eyes again.

 

“Jean?” I whisper, shaking him a little. “This is our stop.”

 

He opens his eyes lazily and blinks a few times to get rid of the sleepiness. I smile at him, because I see the beginnings of drool on the corner of his mouth, and get up. He follows after me, though his movements are slow and tired, and we get off the bus.

 

Immediately, he wakes up as his feet hit the cold snow.

 

“Holy SHIT,” he curses as the bus doors close and it starts off down the road. “It’s fucking cold out here.”

 

“Yeah, let’s get home quick,” I agree and we start walking back to my house. We walk with a brisk, quick pace because the only thing we want is to get out of the cold weather. “When we get back to my house, I’m going to make us hot cocoa.”

 

Jean sighs, his breath blowing out and turning into frosty air in front of us. “That sounds perfect.”

 

We rush through the cold wind, our feet slushing through the thick snow, and make it back to my house in record timing. As soon as we’re inside, we remove our wet shoes and socks, hang up our coats and scarves, and go into the kitchen. Jean stands with his feet in front of a heater vent while I busy myself getting two mugs out to make hot chocolate for both of us.

 

“I think I’m gonna draw for a while,” he says as I pull out the milk from the refrigerator.

 

I nod and he goes to my bedroom to grab his sketchbook from his packed bag. I pour milk into the two coffee mugs and place them into the microwave to heat up. From the cabinet, I pull out two packets of hot chocolate milk (with little marshmallows) and a spoon from the drawer to mix it together.

 

Jean sits down in front of the back sliding glass doors, cross legged with his sketchbook on his lap. He pulls the blinds over so he can see into my backyard, and then he’s drawing.

 

Our backyard is actually pretty big. It’s fenced in, because at one point, we almost got a puppy, so Angelo and I spent a whole week helping to put in a fence with our neighbor who did it for a living. There’s an old play structure with a swing set, too, but it looks old and worn down now. We haven’t played on it for years.

 

The microwave beeps loudly, breaking my stare. I pull the two cups out and mix the hot chocolate powder in with the spoon. I take my time doing this.

 

For days, it’s been eating away at me. My growing affections toward Jean isn’t a stupid little crush anymore, and it’s not something that’s going to just go away if I try not to think about it. It’s scary, but I’m not unsure of what to do anymore.

 

I take a deep breath, because I know what I have to do.

 

I pick up both of the coffee mugs and walk toward Jean slowly. My heart is pounding in my chest and I can hear it in my ears. I feel sick because I’m so nervous, but I don’t stop.

 

I sit down on my knees behind Jean and slide the hot cocoa to him.

 

“Thanks,” he says, dropping his pencil and taking a sip of the hot cocoa. He lets out another sigh, a happy one, as he sets the cup back on the floor next to him.

 

I close my eyes and take a deep breath for courage, and then I lean forward. I rest my forehead against his back, and exhale until my lungs are empty. Confused, Jean starts to turn his head to look at me, but I stop him.

 

“Don’t,” I whisper, because my hands are shaking. “I don’t think I can say this if you’re looking at me.”

 

Jean doesn’t say anything, but he listens to me and faces forward again.

 

I don’t say anything for a minute, because I’m scared. This is a moment that could break our friendship forever – or maybe not. I hold onto whatever positive thoughts come to mind, because I need them. My body is practically screaming at me to stop – _don’t tell him, you are going to ruin everything_. But I open my mouth to tell him, anyway, because I can’t keep living with this secret.

 

“Marco?” Jean breathes finally, his voice sounding worried.

 

“I’ve been hiding something from you. I just… I need a minute to say it, okay?” He doesn’t say anything, so I decide that it must be okay to continue. “You’re my best friend, and I understand if this makes you uncomfortable. I’m sorry if it does. I just really… I need you to know.”

 

It’s silent; I take in one last breath for courage.

 

“Jean, I like you.”


	14. say it to me now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do I even begin, oh my gosh. I guess just, wow, thank you everybody for liking our story and reading and commenting and wow. We definitely were not expecting the reaction we got after posting chapter 13, but it was really amazing. 
> 
> Thank you especially to queenoftheantz for her [amazing](http://queenoftheantz.tumblr.com/post/80383835188/i-give-up-i-admit-it-right-now-i-am-lost-in) [fanart](http://queenoftheantz.tumblr.com/post/79916087866/i-dont-want-to-spam-you-with-my-silly-ships-so) (we seriously do not know how to thank you), rainbowderpyhead for her [cute face smushing](http://rainbowderpyhead.tumblr.com/post/79904096381/im-sorry-its-really-bad-drew-this-when-i), damdemigodwizard for her [chapter 3 fanart](http://damdemigodwizard.tumblr.com/post/79891469351/basically-how-i-pictured-this-scene-going-down), and nanathedork for her [fanart of the confession](http://nanathedork.tumblr.com/post/79719393716/its-silent-i-take-in-one-last-breath-for). 
> 
> We are seriously blown away by you guys, we never expected this to happen and it is just really special for us that you took the time to read our dumb story and even think twice about it. Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. <3

I don’t move. I can’t. It’s hard enough just to breathe because I can feel the warmth spreading from my chest, up my neck, peaking at the tips of my ears as my skin flushes a deep crimson. Marco’s face is still pressed up to that place between my shoulder blades and we don’t speak for a long time.

 

My mouth falls open and I want to call him out. It’s a joke. It has to be.

 

The silence is deafening because all that keeps ringing in my ears is the sound of his voice – soft, low, and deadly serious – and it echoes in my head like a steady thrumming. Maybe it’s just my heartbeat. Everything is painfully loud within the sound of stillness.

 

“Marco,” I manage, but as soon as his name leaves my lips, he jerks upright. I turn to face him, but before I can do it properly, he’s already standing and facing the sliding glass doors. His eyes are fixed on the sinking darkness.

 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says suddenly.

 

My eyes fall to the cup of cocoa in my hands. Why are my hands shaking?

 

“I just,” he starts, then laughs nervously, reaching up to hold the back of his neck.

 

He’s embarrassed, open, and more honest than he has ever been. My thoughts aren’t aligning and I can barely say his name without feeling like my throat is closing shut.

 

He sighs. “I just wanted to say it.” There’s a pause, and then with his voice a dull tremor, “I, uh, I needed to say it.”

 

Without waiting, he gives one last look out at the back yard and walks past me, down the hall and into the bathroom where I hear the door shut with a soft click. He isn’t angry, but his absence in the room makes me feel like crying. And I hate crying.

 

 _I like you. I like you. I like you._ The words reverberate in my skull and it’s like a faucet I can’t shut off, spilling over into everything until the room is flooded and my head is spinning. The cup of cocoa turns cold in my hands because I can’t bring myself to drink it. Part of me feels sick – but I think it’s self-induced.

 

_Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell him you felt the same way? Why couldn’t you just open up your goddamn mouth and say what you’ve wanted to say this whole time?_

 

The sound of shower water hitting the bottom of the tub pings sharply in my ears, and even though the sound is distant, it cuts through my thoughts like a knife.

 

 _“I like you.”_  

 

He’s not just a roommate anymore. He’s not just a buddy. He’s not just your best friend in the entire world… and there’s no turning back.

 

But if I’m honest with myself, there’s been no turning back since this knot started tying. The one in my gut. The painful one that gets tighter every time his hand brushes up against me, or every night we scoot a little closer in bed, or every time he gives me that look… like he’s cherishing me. A look I don’t think I’ve ever been given before.

 

I’ve been past the point of no return for too long, that everyday-feeling occupying my chest that warns me that I’ll blow up if I don’t do something soon to either release or quell it.

 

In my head, I start to piece my thoughts together: _Marco likes you. He_ like _-likes you… Or, at least, that’s what it sure sounded like… And anyway, you like him. What is your problem? You choke on your words and let him think he’s alone in this, that he’s the only one who’s been thinking this way… But for how long? When…_

I try to silence the thought that nags at me, the one that keeps on repeating that he probably doesn’t mean it the way I think he does. The way I _want_ him to mean it. And the disappointment clouding and spotting my vision doesn’t help when I’m trying to push the thought from my mind, because I can’t focus on anything physical. All I can do is keep replaying his words.

And I’m not prepared for it when it happens; a rush of memories slams through me at the thought of Marco having the same feeling in the pit of his stomach as I do. All the moments that flash in my mind are jumbled and out of order, but each one is accompanied by a new pinprick in my chest. Halloween. Sleeping in the same bed, arms around each other, Marco’s breath warm on the back of my neck. Cinnamon. Long eyelashes casting shadows on his freckled cheeks as I apply his Halloween makeup. The feeling of his arms around me as I cry like a stupid little kid into the crook of his neck. Sharing Pop Tarts back at the dorms. Bringing Marco flashcards at work to help him study for finals. A smile. My hand on his waist as we stare down the lane of the bowling alley, with me trying so hard to fight this feeling inside me – the feeling that maybe, well, that I like him too.

_You do._

My breath catches in the back of my throat and my eyes pinch shut tightly. I realize in this moment, with cold cocoa in my hands and my face red-hot, that I love every single fucking thing about Marco. And it terrifies me.

_You’re allowed to feel this way._

I don’t pay attention to the time. All I know is that I sit terribly still in Marco’s living room until my back starts to ache from hunching over with my head in my hands, figuring out what to do next. Because this time, it’s falling onto me. _I_ have to decide what’s happening from here because Marco has done all he can do.

With a deep breath, I stand and stare down the darkened hallway.

My feet move slow. I take one look inside the bathroom, of which the door is open, and see heavy fog still clinging to the mirror. At the end of the hallway, a soft yellow light comes from the crack beneath the doorframe. It takes all the courage I can muster to get my hand on the doorknob. For a minute, I just stand there, mentally preparing myself for what I’m about to do. It takes a minute, but finally, I turn the doorknob.

“Marco,” I say, his name leaving my mouth before I even have the door fully opened. I peek inside, heart thrumming a thousand miles a minute, and my eyes find him standing at the bookshelf, his back facing me. He doesn’t turn around right away, but I can see the glisten in his hair, still damp from the shower. He doesn’t look as tall as he usually does.

I inhale sharply. _You have to be strong._

When he speaks, his words are soft, and there’s a smile in his voice that I know is forced. _“_ I can take the couch in the living room tonight,” is all he says.

My breath catches.

_“_ No, Marco, that’s– that’s not–” But I keep cutting myself off, searching for a way to the right words… But when I can’t find them, I huff heavily in aggravation. The sound is what makes him turn around.

His fallen shoulders don’t move a muscle. One hand rests on the bookshelf while the other stays limp at his side. He looks like he just got punched in the gut and all I want to do is assure him – right at this very instant – that it’s going to be alright. But I can’t. At least, not yet.

The second our eyes meet, I can feel myself starting to pull back. I’m nervous. Too nervous – more nervous that I’ve ever been. But I can’t let myself become afraid to the point where words run dry, because if I do then I’m just a coward. And it’s not that I don’t want to say it – it’s that I don’t want to be rejected.

That fear of rejection is what has guided my entire life.

Until now.

My eyes flicker to his bedroom window and notice snow just beginning to fall, trickling softly against the frosted pane.

I know what I have to do.

“Put a hat on,” I say. “And some boots.”

This throws him. He quirks an eyebrow at me and tilts his head to the side.

I clarify. “We’re going for a walk.”

Marco looks down for a second at his clothes; he’s wearing a t-shirt with the words “Jinae High School 2013” printed on it in collegiate font and a pair of blue and green flannel pajama pants.

“I’m getting ready for bed,” he says at first – but I know he isn’t really. It’s not that fucking late.

I don’t even let him entertain that thought before I’m rushing to the door grabbing our coats and bringing them back to the room. I toss his onto the bed with an air of finality, as though to say: “You don’t have a choice.”

But instead of this, I just sigh and look away. I can’t meet his eyes right now. I fold my arms across my chest and pray that I don’t look like a scared little boy, because standing in front of him right now, I sure feel that way.

 

Marco doesn’t speak. He simply follows orders – grabs that stupid hat with the flaps and the pompom, the one that he shoved on my head in the library that time I ran from campus security for taking a piss outside, and pulls it on his head. I smile a little to myself, and I know he can see it when I do.

 

“You don’t even like walks,” Marco says, smiling a little to himself. He tugs his coat on and zips it up to his neck. “Where are we going?”

 

I shrug and struggle to find the words. “I don’t mind walks with you.”

 

His movements falter as he tugs on a pair of gloves, but he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if Marco can hear his heart beating in his ears, too.

 

I wait for Marco to finish bundling himself up before we head to the front door, tug our boots on in silence, and trudge out into the snowy evening. There’s one streetlamp that flickers on and off at the end of Marco’s driveway and something about it makes me feel even less at ease.

 

Shooting a glance at Marco, I try and calm myself down. He’s tugging at the front of his hat, flattening the tufts of hair that curl from the steeple of his hairline. He’s fidgeting with the sleeves of his coat, with the zipper near the neckline and with a thread that pokes out of the ring finger on his left glove. He’s doing everything but looking at me, but I find it hard to do anything besides stare at him.

 

As our boots sink in to the thick snow out at the road, I notice when he stumbles.

 

“Woah!” I shout, moving my hands up to stop him. He’s always been a little taller than me, but as soon as he catches himself leaning into my grip, he stiffens – straightens – and I have to crane my neck to see into his eyes.

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, but as he turns away to continue down the darkened road, I feel an unspoken distance between us. My chest falls.

 

 _I don’t want this,_ I think. _I don’t want you to distance yourself because of something stupid I said – or didn’t say._

 

Without another thought, I reach my hand out and grab onto his.

 

This stops him. His footsteps are hesitant to keep moving, but when I don’t stop, neither does he. His gloved hand is warm in mine.

 

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be careful not to slip again,” he says, giving my hand a little squeeze before prying his fingers out of mine. “You don’t have to.”

 

With aching lungs, I speak before I am able to collect my thoughts… and it comes out like a snap.

 

“I’m not doing it because I have to.”

 

There’s a long silence between us as our legs keep moving, but everything around us feels so still that it’s almost as though we haven’t moved at all.

 

It’s just us.

 

“Um,” I start, finally breaking the silence because it feels like we’re walking on pins and needles and it’s too much for me to take. I keep thinking about his hand and the way his fingers had fit between mine perfectly. “You know, I’m not good with words. I can’t say what I mean – usually, anyway, and, uh…”

 

 _Oh, god, why is this so hard?_ I think frantically. _Just spit it out, goddammit!_

 

Marco doesn’t say anything – he just waits for me patiently to find the courage to do it myself.

 

I start again. “I… I knew I fucked up. When we were at Sasha’s, for her end-of-the-semester party, and I got really drunk…”

 

“Your memories from that night are probably a little fuzzy,” Marco laughs softly. His eyes are fixed on his shoes and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s okay.”

 

_You’re wrong._

 

I shake my head. “No, I remember everything – or, the important parts, anyway. I, um, remember kissing you.”

 

Marco’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open a fraction, and I know it’s because of how accidental and casual the words sounded coming out of my mouth.

 

It isn’t long before the quiet starts to drown my ears, so I try to keep going. “I didn’t mean to–”

 

“Jean,” he cuts me off starkly, his voice rigid, “you don’t have to apologize. I know it didn’t mean… Well, what I wanted it to… I know I shouldn’t have said anything at all, but I couldn’t keep it…” Marco’s hands motion to his chest before they fall back at his sides, defeated. “I’ve held it in here for too long.” His words are sharp, jagged, cutting and they splice through the cold air between us.

 

These words aren’t meant to hurt, but they do, anyway.

 

“But you _did_ say it,” I start again, trying to keep my voice even, but it’s hard when each breath is more painful than the last. “And you meant it, right?”

 

“Jean, stop.” His voice quivers and, suddenly, he stops walking. Completely. The two of us stand in quiet silence, snow falling on our heads, looking anywhere but at each other. The air is heavy, and I don’t know how to fix it.

 

Slowly but surely, I’m fucking everything up.

 

“No, Marco. You don’t understand.” My words come quickly because all at once, I’m grasping out at straws trying to piece this back together – because Marco meant it. He fucking _meant it._

 

“What don’t I understand, Jean?” he asks, turning on his heel to face me directly. His eyes reflect off the streetlight and burn holes in mine, glowing hot like the coals of a fire. “That you’re straight? Because trust me, I know.”

 

“Marco–”

 

His words cut me off and sound reckless in my ears. I wonder if he means any of it. “No, Jean, it’s okay. You’re still my best friend, even if you don’t want to be mine anymore, and Christmas is in a few days, but I understand if you want to leave early–”

 

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” I’m suddenly shouting at him. “Can’t you see I’m trying here? I’m just… I can’t…” The words linger on the tip of my tongue: _I can’t keep you guessing. I have to tell you, I have to have you know that you’ve been the only fucking thing on my mind for months._

 

He bites down on his lower lip so hard I’m afraid it’s going to split. I reach up a hand and rest it on his shoulder. I notice as his eyes flicker to the contact, then back down into my eyes.

 

Marco’s voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize,” I say slowly, never looking anywhere but into his eyes – and I swear it’s the adrenaline. “You… aren’t the only one, you know.”

 

Our breathing is shallow. Hazy clouds rise in the air, like two smokestacks.

 

I take a hesitant step closer... and there’s a look that flashes in Marco’s eyes. 

 

“You’re so frustrating sometimes,” I murmur. My palm moves downward until it's flat, flush against his chest. I try to keep my composure, but I can feel my fingertips shaking. _I’m so fucking nervous that I’m trembling in front of you._

 

“Y-You’re the frustrating one,” Marco manages. I’m so close that I can see the tears in his eyes; it makes my own eyes sting and I can’t keep staring at him. In an instant, his hands are at my waist, and before I know it, we’re holding each other. I pull him and he pulls me, and for the first time in a long time, the knot in the pit of my stomach loosens.

 

How easily it is for everything to burn away – every feeling of guilt, or regret, or fear, or pain, or hopeless longing. We’re taught that this is supposed to feel wrong, but with Marco, it doesn’t feel that way.

 

I see him… and I know this can’t be wrong.

 

There’s a sudden shift, another change in pressure. I let out the breath I feel like I’ve been holding since we met. My hold on him tightens, and I feel his fists clinging at the fabric of my puffy winter jacket. I suddenly realize that I’m not the only one shaking.

 

“How long?” I ask him quietly.

 

“The whole time.” He pauses. “And, um, you?”

 

I smile now, because I can’t help it. “It was more of a manifestation. You know. Slow burn.”

 

Marco pulls away, but doesn’t let me get as far as arm’s length. In fact, he only let’s me go far enough so that he can see my face – and I know I’m blushing like a motherfucker so it’s embarrassing when he tilts his head back and starts to laugh.

 

“I told you I’m not good at this,” I say, huffing. I reach out again and take his hand – this time less tentatively than before. My fingers lace through his, Marco’s knitted glove soft against my bare skin. “And I don’t really know anything, um, about–”

 

“Yeah,” Marco says, like he knows. “I’ve never been with a boy before.”

 

My chest is tight, and when I speak, my mouth feels dry. Suddenly, I find myself saying the words I’ve been trying to spit out this whole time – simple words that carry more weight than I could ever imagine. These words are a confirmation. _A promise._

 

“I like you, Marco.”

 

It’s slow, the smile that unfolds on his lips. The look in his eyes is one I know I’m never going to forget – a strange mix of knowing, gratitude, excitement, and hope. And I hope that when he looks at me, he sees the same thing.

 

Marco presses his forehead against mine. “I just… never thought…”

 

“I know,” I cheese, then let the laughter bubbling in my throat slip out. “This is so weird.”

 

“A good weird, right?”

 

I laugh again, and I know it’s not that I think it’s funny. I’m just really incredibly terribly happy, and it’s showing. “No, no, it’s good!”

 

Soon, Marco’s laughing, too. He presses a hand to his eyes and I lean forward, resting my head on his shoulder. And, for a minute, we’re just two dumb kids who don’t know the first thing about romance or dating. All we know is that we’re happy, and we’re together. And that’s all that matters.

* * *

We walk back to Marco’s slowly. For the first time, I wish that this road were longer because I want to keep holding this boy’s hand and catching snowflakes on my tongue like they’re candy. I want to keep feeling the cold wind biting at my cheeks, all the while knowing that Marco’s hat and scarf are keeping him warm.

 

It hits me like a ton of bricks: _You were meant to do this all along._

 

We see Marco’s mom’s car in the driveway when we finally make it back, and before we enter in through the front door, we let go of each other’s hands. I give him a knowing look and he nods; it’s too soon to say anything, especially to his mother. But I’m not sad.

 

Giuliana’s sitting at the kitchen counter with her head in her hands, a cup of cocoa at her side, and a file of details about a case spread out between her arms.

 

“Oh, boys,” she says, perking up at the sound of our ruckus in the front room. “I didn’t know where you went, you weren’t here when I got home.”

 

“Sorry Mom,” Marco laughs beside me. “We went for a walk.”

 

She nods, still smiling, but she looks exhausted and verging on falling asleep in the kitchen.

 

Marco takes his boots and hat off before running up behind her and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Not supposed to bring work home,” he says with a tired smile, then tugs the file out of her grip and closes it softly. Their eyes meet and I remember what it feels like to want a mother like Marco’s in my life. She smiles up at him and reaches for her cocoa, taking a sip before sighing deeply.

 

“It’s been a long day,” is all she says. Her voice rings tiredly in my ears.

 

“I know, Mom,” Marco says, leaning up against the counter. “You should try and get some sleep, you know?”

 

She nods. “You, too.”

 

He gives her another quick kiss on the forehead, then snakes around the counter toward me. His eyes find mine and that feeling returns – the feeling that my heart is too full, that it’s on the brink of overflowing. His head tilts, motioning for us to head to his bedroom, and I nod back in agreement.

 

Before we leave, I say, “Goodnight, Giuliana.”

 

“Goodnight, Jean,” she replies. Her voice is still soft, laced with sleeplessness, but our eyes lock and I notice a certain sadness… But the look is there and then it’s gone, and I can’t stop myself turning on my heel with an odd guilt in my chest.

 

Together, we head down the hallway. Marco throws the door to his bedroom open, flicks the light on, and waits for me to follow in after him before shutting it behind me. Then, with one sideways glance in my direction, he bolts full-speed to his bed, leaps in the air, and plops down onto his back with a heavy thunk and chorus of bed springs.

 

I laugh. “Oh, what the heck.” I then proceed to do the same, running at the bed and heaving myself up onto it – but I stub my toe on the bedframe and my legs end up tangling with Marco’s in the process. I cry out like a stupid idiot manchild and Marco cackles, holding his belly with his chest as his neck cranes over the edge of the bed.

 

“Shut up,” I mutter, nudging his ankle with my foot. I don’t try and move, though; even though it’s just a simple thing, it makes my heart beat faster and my cheeks start to flush. When Marco looks back over at me, his expression relaxes. His laughing mouth closes and turns into a warm smile, and after just a moment of hesitation, he reaches one hand up to graze my arm.

 

I roll over onto my side and watch his gaze move from my eyes to my lips.

 

“You can do it, you know,” I say quietly. “If you want.”

 

Marco is suddenly embarrassed. “Um, what do you mean?”

 

My chest tightens. Propping myself up with my elbow, I bring one hand uncertainly upward before I find the courage to press it against the curve of his neck. My nervous fingers run rigid against his jawline.

 

I can’t help it when I find myself staring at his own lips, light pink and parted slightly. Our eyes meet for just a fraction of a second before I inch closer, and closer, still staring at his lips…

 

My eyes flicker shut and all at once, I’m leaning downward. I’m kissing him, soft and afraid because I hope to god I’m doing this right. It feels different than the first time, when our lips were numb and I was drunk and everything was a little distorted. This time, it feels crystal clear, and I commit every sense around me to memory: the sound of his breath hitching, the feeling of his hands as they smooth against my shoulder blades, and all the stars that burst behind my eyelids.

 

I pull away, my fingertips still light on his skin. His eyes open and he looks up at me, and in this moment, I understand. Marco has been waiting for me to realize, waiting and waiting but never expecting anything. And when I see it in his eyes, I realize I want to give him everything. For every moment wasted beating around the bush, walking on thin ice around one another out of miscommunication or doubt.

 

His hands curve around the contours of my cheeks and he pulls me back down again – and headfirst, I dive in. With every insecurity and fear, I’m all in. And in the midst of kissing him, _really_ _truly honest-to-god_ kissing him, I can’t help the smile that spreads; my grin is wide against his lips and I know he can feel it.

 

“I like you,” I whisper. “I like you, I like you, I like you.” I make sure to repeat it enough times for it to sink in, as many times as I have to in order to savor this physically-fleeting moment. It happens slow and fast, both at once. Kissing Marco is like fast-forwarding a Jackson Pollock painting, like lying on your back in the middle of summer, floating down a river that never ends.

 

We stay up late talking about plans for Christmas Eve – tomorrow – and we tease each other because we can’t wait to give each other our dumb presents. I find that it’s hard to keep my hands off of him; as soon as I start, I can’t seem to stop. Marco puts a record on, playing The Temptations as we get under the covers and hold hands. It’s innocent, but the longer I spend with my fingers laced through his, the more natural it starts to feel.

 

I can’t sleep, even when it gets to be too late for Marco. He starts to doze with his face pressed up against my chest, one arm slung over my side. I bury my face in his hair and breathe in the still-fresh scent of shampoo.

 

No one has ever held me like he does. Like I’m worth holding onto.

 

“A slow burn,” I whisper quietly to myself, remembering.

 

As I close my eyes, Marco fidgets in his sleep – and I swear he hears me. 

* * *

We don’t even have to discuss what we’re wearing to church the next day. We already know. I take longer to get ready than he does though, so when I emerge from the bathroom with still-damp hair, Marco is sitting at the front counter with his reading glasses on, the newspaper open in front of him with two ready-made cups of coffee sitting to his left.

 

I don’t bother trying to hide my smiles anymore. I take a seat next to him and pour most of the remaining creamer into my cup.

 

“Sweet tooth?” Marco laughs.

 

“Can’t drink it black,” I wince, sticking my tongue out before bringing the cup to my lips and taking a sip.

 

Mmm, hazelnut.

 

I pause before speaking again, looking around the room for Giuliana even though I know she’s already left for work. What I want to say is guarded – so it’s only when I’m sure that we’re alone that I can say it, as simple as it is.

 

“Um, you look nice.”

 

Marco shoots me a look over the top of his glasses and smiles. His white teeth have an almost animated sparkle to them and his eyes crinkle up, and even though I know I haven’t said anything extreme, it’s enough to brighten up his whole face. In the corniest way possible, my heart skips a beat.

 

“We look like a couple of dorks,” he laughs now, looking down at himself. “And how long are we going to keep matching like this? People are going to start thinking that these are the only shirts we own.”

 

“I don’t care,” I grin stupidly. “I like it.”

 

Marco laughs. “A couple months ago and you were shamed by the thought of wearing these to Chemistry… But I think that _I’m_ going to be the embarrassed one now.” He pauses, pressing a wrist to his eye. “Oh, god, what have I got myself into?”

 

I take another sip of coffee and lean against the counter, propping my chin up with my hand. White light streams in through the sliding backdoor and it hits his faces in such a way that makes his head glow, like a halo or something.

 

“It’s not too late to back out, you know,” I murmur, after which he immediately kicks me in the shins. “BALLS! That fucking hurt, Marco!”

 

“Well don’t say stuff like that,” he says. His voice is small. “Unless you’re having second thoughts or something–”

 

“I’m not,” I sputter, cutting him off with a hand on the table. Before I know it, I’m bridging the gap between us; his fist loosens as I cover it with my hand, holding it softly. I lean toward him, and he stares back at me curiously at first before I see it again in his eyes – a look like he can’t wrap his head around the fact that this is real.

 

With a sudden flurry of butterflies in my stomach, my lips press firmly against the side of his mouth. Stunned, Marco brings a hand up to the place where they had been as soon as I pull away.

 

“Good,” he sighs, smiling a little, “me neither.”

 

We have some cereal for breakfast and finish our coffee before bundling up and heading out into the tundra. Apparently after we came in last night, a snowstorm decided to ravage Jinae so everything is covered in a thick blanket of white. The road to Marco’s house hasn’t been plowed and there aren’t any tire tracks, so we carefully trudge through the evenly-settled snow and walk to the bus stop – holding hands the entire way.

 

It makes me feel warm inside. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s the truth. That feeling like your heart is overflowing is a real emotion, and I hadn’t realized it until last night. Now, it’s like a constant. I have to focus of little things just to keep my composure around him; I would have never guessed that, at the beginning of the semester, I would be right where I am, going to church on Christmas Eve with that dorky freckled kid who I had to share a room with my first year in college.

 

We finally make it to the bus stop but end up having to wait over a half hour for the damn ride to show up. While we wait, Marco enlightens me about the tradition his family has of going to church on Christmas Eve, and how this is the first time they haven’t gone together. I rub the back of his hand with my thumb with my head resting on his shoulder. We watch as snow starts to fall again, and complain about our runny noses and frost-bitten cheeks.

 

The bus finally pulls up and we’re huddled, shivering, and I shout something profane about how long we’ve been waiting. Marco laughs as we stand from the bench and get on the bus, finding a seat near the back out of anyone’s direct line of sight and immediately taking each other’s hands again.

 

“It’s strange,” Marco mumbles.

 

“What is?”

 

A nervous smile takes his lips and he’s sure to keep his voice low. “How different things were not even a full day ago. And now…” He pauses, breathing deeply. “You’re sitting here. Holding my hand.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I thought that was how it worked when two people do that whole ‘middle-school confession’ thing.”

 

He laughs, then takes my hand in both of his. He unfolds my fingers until my hand is flat, then cups his around either side of it – like he’s treasuring it.

 

I have to look out the window because my neck is getting warm and I don’t want to look stupid. _But I guess it’s little late to be worried about looking stupid,_ I think. _You blew that cover long ago._

 

It takes an hour for us to get to the church because of all the stops in-between. Marco tells me that there are a lot of people out today compared to usual, even if it resembles a painfully slow day in Trost. He laughs when, as we walk in through the giant church doors, he points at a man who used to be his dentist. Then when he sees a family of four, he identifies them as the ones who own a little deli across town. He spots the police officer who gave him his first (and _only_ ) ticket (which wasn’t even his fault, honestly). Leaning up against the wall inside is a tall boy he knew from Sunday School, arm-in-arm with a petite blond girl who Marco claims used to have a huge crush on him in the fourth grade.

 

I swear this kid knows everyone, and I’m not sure if it’s because the town is so small, or if it’s because Marco is just the kind of person who attracts people. My instincts lean toward the latter.

 

“Over there,” Marco points, and we snatch up what appears to be the last butt real estate left in the whole building, situated in the second-to-last pew.

 

The sound of wailing children greets my ears with a sharp pinging. Marco sees the aggravated look on my face and tries to assuage my irritation with promises that mass usually isn’t more than an hour and a half. Still, the thought of being trapped in a building with hysterical babies is enough to make my eyes roll into the back of my head.

 

I really don’t know much about church. I mean, I’ve only gone a few times with my parents, and one of those times was for Klaudia’s wedding. We aren’t very religious, like, at all. But as soon as the service starts, it’s clear that Marco has been born and raised on straight Jesus. He knows the right words to say at the right times, he voice barely audible against the roar of the congregation. He doesn’t even have to open up the book of hymns when the songs start, because he’s already memorized all the words.

 

His brow furrows as he sings some of the words, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes closed. His voice travels up into the air, his notes a little sharp and tone a little raspy. But he’s lost in the song, and in himself, and…

 

Wow, he’s cute.

 

We sit back down after a few minutes and my knee brushes up against Marco’s. I can’t handle myself; even the slightest touch makes those butterflies start acting up and I feel like a total fucking schoolgirl. Eventually, however, I start to zone out, and I feel even younger than a schoolgirl. I feel like one of those babies, wanting to cry because this is dragging out forever and I can hardly hear what the priest is saying and–

 

It’s about halfway through mass when Marco reaches a hand over to my thigh. We’re practically sitting on top of each other due to how little available sitting room there was when we got here, so he doesn’t have to reach all that far to do so. In fact, the quick moment of closeness probably goes unnoticed by most people around us.

 

At first I’m confused, but I don’t want to look down and cause a scene – not with the threat of unwanted eyes boring holes into the back of my head.

 

But his hand lingers for only a moment. He doesn’t rest it there, but instead uses his pointer finger to lightly trace a heart against my khaki pants. His touch is delicate, but I recognize the shape he makes and it’s enough to burn my cheeks a fervent hue of red. As soon as he’s done, his hand moves back to his lap and he pretends like nothing happened. I want to punch him in the face.

 

Like, with my mouth.

 

I stay seated when our pew goes to get the Eucharist. He flashes me a smile and gets up to follow the rest of the row, not minding. Because of his height, I can tell exactly where he is, even from a distance. He takes a sip of wine from the goblet held in an elderly man’s hands and accepts the little cracker, symbolizing the body of Christ. As he winds back around the front and follows the stout woman in front of him back to his seat, he sticks the bread in his mouth and forms the sign of the cross.

 

It’s almost mesmerizing to watch; religion is a part of Marco that he doesn’t talk about much, and he doesn’t seem to care that it doesn’t hold much importance in my life. I smile to myself – because it’s nice to see someone care so much about something. It’s like you’re seeing their true self, the self that others rarely do.

 

He sits back down and glances over his shoulder at the doors. “Ready to go?” he asks quietly. “Beat the rush.”

 

I nod once, stand from the pew, and wait for Marco to accompany me. As we walk through the threshold and out into the flurrying winter afternoon, I feel his hand at the small of my back. With a stupid leap, my heart starts beating a little faster. I can’t help leaning into his touch.

 

“Mind if we go visit Angelo?” Marco asks, tilting his head a little. “Mom left a note at home that she was going to head over there after she got out of work, so I figured…” He trails off, and I wonder if Marco has this idea in his head that I think of visiting his brother as a chore.

 

“No, of course not,” I tell him honestly.

 

As we cross the front parking lot of the church and make our way down to the bus stop a few blocks down, a man with his wife and children looks up at us. My eyes meet his just as soon as they look away from Marco’s unmoving hand at my waist. I see the look in his eyes, the look I didn’t know I’d been dreading until now. Disdain, disapproval, and scorn all flash in his eyes and he nudges his children further from us – like we’re diseased.

 

If this wasn’t my first time dealing with someone like that, I know I would have said something. But instead of angry, I feel embarrassed – like maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to feel comfortable with Marco.

 

It’s like he can read my thoughts when he leans toward me and says softly, “Don’t pay attention to people like that. It’s just a small town, so anyone who is different is automatically scrutinized.”

 

We get to the bus stop and I huff, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. “I would understand. You know a lot of people here, I wouldn’t want to…”

 

“‘Wouldn’t want to’ what?” he laughs silently. “Ruin my reputation or something?” I don’t say anything because he’s right, and at my silence, he looks away. His hand falls from my waist and I notice instantly. “Your opinion of me matters more than theirs, you know.”

 

“I’m just trying to look out for you.”

 

He cracks a smile, and after a minute, he holds his hand out for me to take. Without thinking, I do.

 

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.” 

* * *

We get to the hospital and are happily surprised to see that they’ve stepped their decoration game up. There are trees decked out in silver balls and tinsel, angels tipped at the peaks and holly pinned up on the walls. There are wreaths, poinsettias, bells on doors and an image of Santa on his sleigh cresting over a snow-covered town hangs in a frame behind the front desk in the lobby.

 

Ruth and Diane offer Marco and me a wave and a Merry Christmas, which we both return a bit less enthusiastically. We make our way up to Angelo’s floor, say a quick hello to that Roselyn girl at the desk in the ICU, but she looks busy and there is a flurry of nurses chattering nervously as they bound down the hallway, so we make a beeline for Angelo’s room and quickly shut the door behind us.

 

“Holidays are pretty crazy here,” Marco says with a sigh.

 

“I can imagine.”

 

I look across the room at Angelo, still sound asleep with needles puncturing his wrists. The heart monitor to his left still beeps steadily; it’s all Marco has to hold on to.

 

Marco’s jacket comes off instantly because the room is so warm. He then takes a seat at Angelo’s side and I pull a chair over from the other side of the room, hitching up beside him before plopping down with a sigh. My face studies that of Marco’s brother, with the tubes at his nose and the sallow hue to his cheeks. I silently compare it to the picture I see on Marco’s bedside table at night and feel that familiar sinking feeling start to take hold in my chest.

 

Overhead, that Bruce Springsteen version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” plays and, wow, I have never been so sick of the boss in my life. It’s like everywhere Marco and I go, we hear this damn song. As soon as I notice it, I shoot a look at Marco and he looks at me, knowing.

 

And we can’t help it when we burst into laughter. Marco leans forward, folding his arm at the side of Angelo’s bed and leaning his face into the crook at his elbow. It’s little stupid things like these, moments that shouldn’t even be funny but they are because we’re both high off of each other. With every passing moment, the feeling perpetuates.

 

Marco breathes a happy sigh, but then his eyes fall back on Angelo’s face and I notice it falter – just a fraction.

 

“I can’t wait for you to wake up,” he says, his voice quiet. “There’s a lot I have to catch you up on. And you still have to meet Jean.”

 

I start taking my jacket off, resting it on the back of my chair and look from Marco to his younger brother. _It’s been so long,_ I think sadly, but refuse to entertain the thought that has been eating at me since I got to Jinae and met Angelo. It’s a thought that probably plagues Marco every time he wakes up.

 

_What if this is it?_

 

We hang out with Angelo for hours. The nurses come in to check on him intermittently, run daily tests, but they don’t take long. This has all become standard procedure at this point.

 

Marco stands from the chair sometime around six o’clock, moving to the window and turning his eyes out to face the darkened street. The sun has almost completely set, casting a gray-blue shadow over everything. The window is frosted around the edges, making the scene look like a framed picture pulled out of a magazine.

 

I lean forward and stand too, following him to the window as we peer out at the street. Marco looks as tired as I feel; the past few hours have put me in a strange mood, tired and anxious and a little sad. But every now and then, a wave of jitters washes over me when I remember last night. It’s certain images that flash in my head that stir up that weird sensation in my chest, like his hands at my cheeks as he kissed me again and again. Every place his fingertips touched me was like an electrocution that I never wanted to stop shocking me, like flames were burning just beneath my skin.

 

Beside me, Marco opens his mouth and creates condensation on the windowpane. Then, shooting me a quick look, he uses his pointer finger to write something on the glass.

 

_J + M_

 

“Oh my god,” I snort, “you are such a loser.”

 

“Excuse you,” Marco scoffs. “I happen to be _romantic._ ”

 

I roll my eyes and breathe against the window in front of where I stand, straightening a little before drawing something of my own design. A truly romantic masterpiece… A dick.

 

“Erase that now,” Marco says seriously and without hesitation. “If my mom sees–”

 

There’s a sudden commotion near the doorway and we both jump, spinning on our heels to find the cause of the noise.

 

“What do you not want your mother to see?” Giuliana’s voice chimes, walking in with a tray of cookies in her hands.

 

Immediately, we both reach up and smother our artwork before playing it off cool. Nothing to see here. Definitely not.

 

Marco crosses the room and takes the cookies from his mom, kissing her quickly on the cheek before setting them down on the table beside Angelo’s bed. She greets us and talks about her day for a while, sighing as she goes on about the case she’s currently dealing with and how she’s probably going to have to go in at some point tomorrow. I see Marco’s face fall a little, but he tries to smile with assurance, to tell her that we’ll be fine.

 

“You boys both look exhausted,” she comments after a while, sitting at the end of Angelo’s bed with her hand gently holding her son’s knee. “You should head home, get something to eat.”

 

“We can wait for you,” Marco offers, but she shakes her head.

 

“I just ate on the way over. You and Jean need to get home, rest up a bit. You’ve had a long day.”

 

Eventually Marco nods, picking his own coat up from the back of his chair and pulling it on. I follow suit, feeling strange to leave the hospital because in many ways, it’s as though we just got there. For me, time with Angelo passes quickly. I wonder if it’s the same for Marco.

 

We say goodbye to Giuliana and with one last look at Angelo, we leave the room. Marco lets out a long sigh as the door closes, leaning up against it briefly before meeting my eyes. I check to make sure he’s okay, waiting for him to nod or smile or _something._ But he doesn’t.

 

“Marco…” I start, but he just shakes his head.

 

“She’s just tired,” he says, starting from the door. We head to the elevators and head inside, pressing the button for the first floor, and as soon as the doors close, I take a deep breath and grab his hand.

 

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, even though I don’t know if it ever will be, really. How the fuck would I know, though, if everything would work out in the end? I’m 19 years old. I don’t know jack shit. But I get this feeling like Marco needs to hear these words, no matter how hollow they are coming out of my mouth.

 

He smiles a little, squeezing my hand and giving me this look like… Like…

 

Before I can fully sort out what it is that flashes in his eyes, he leans across the elevator and kisses me quick on the lips.

 

“You better get ready,” he says as the elevator door opens, never letting go of my hand. “Because I’m about to cook you the best Christmas Eve dinner you’ve ever had.” 

* * *

“Best Christmas Eve Dinner Ever” is kind of a far cry – technically – from what Marco ends up delivering. He opens up the pantry, the fridge, the freezer, and manages to scrounge up a bag of rolls, two cans of chicken noodle soup, and some bread for a grilled cheese.

 

“Well, looks like it’s going to be more of a comfort food kind of dinner,” Marco sighs sadly. “Not exactly what I had in mind… But I guess we’re going to have to roll with it.”

 

I shrug. “I don’t really mind.”

 

“Tomorrow, we’ll go all out,” Marco says as he turns on two stove-top burners. His words come quick. “I can call my mom and have her stop at the grocery store on the way home, and then we’ll have a really good dinner. Much better than this one.”

 

I shake my head at him, smiling as I lean up against the counter and watch Marco work. “You want to help?” he asks softly, chancing a glance at me over his shoulder as he pulls open a cabinet and retrieves a can opener.

 

“Sure,” I shrug, “but I must warn you: I’m a terrible cook.”

 

“I’m not that great either,” he grins. “I mean, I can make you grilled cheeses and TV dinners all day long, but I’m still kind of learning the rest of it.”

 

He instructs me to get the butter out of the fridge along with a couple pieces of cheese, which I do. Then he hands me the can opener and instructs me to open both cans, which I can’t really do but decide to try anyway. I’m actually terrible with can openers, but of course I don’t want to look like a little bitch so I take the tool from him and position it on the can.

 

_You got this, Jean. It’s just a can._

 

A bead of sweat trickles down from my forehead. _Just… a can…_

 

But after pressing the can opener to the rim and trying to make it through just one simple turn, the can somehow slips out of alignment with the opener, clashes to the floor, and the opener clamps down with full force. Right onto my finger.

 

The sound that comes out of my mouth is unholy, like a demonic pterodactyl cry that echoes throughout the entire house.

 

Marco looks at me, terrified. “Oh, god, Jean! Are you okay?!”

 

“MOTHER FUCKER!” I cry, crouching down to the floor, cradling my poor finger with tears in my eyes. “That fucking _hurt_!”

 

“What did you do?” he asks softly, bending down to my level as well to get a better look at what exactly took place.

 

“Well, uh, I pinched my finger.” I pause. “On the can opener… I don’t open many cans.”

 

I can tell Marco is doing everything in his power not to laugh, but is definitely struggling. “Here,” he says eventually, reaching out for my hands with his own. Slowly, I offer my poor finger out to him and he holds it gingerly. It’s red and a little purple with what already looks like a bruise forming under my skin.

 

“Ow,” I wince. “Sorry I’m a giant idiot.”

 

Marco laughs silently, and then staring at my finger a moment longer, brings it up to his lips. He kisses it gently right on the tip, but as soon as he realizes what he’s done, his eyes go wide and he pulls back.

 

“Ah, sorry,” he says quickly, apologetic and embarrassed. “Um, I-I used to do that, for my brother.”

 

“No, Marco,” I smile, despite the pain in my finger. “It’s okay. Um… it’s sweet.”

 

And suddenly, we’re both blushing because _fuck,_ we still don’t have a clue what we’re doing, but as nerve-wracking as every moment around him is, it’s nice. I’m constantly wondering if I’m doing this right, and that sudden rush of joy every time I see him smile at me starts to feel familiar.

 

It’s fast and slow and five hundred different kids of crazy, but with Marco, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Deciding that I should probably sit out of this one, Marco takes the reins on dinner and makes me what I have to say is one of the best grilled cheeses of my life. I’m hungry, so of course everything tastes amazing, but it’s extra special because he made it for me. He keeps saying things like: “I know it’s not that great” and “Tomorrow will be better,” but to be honest, it could be a bowl of cereal and I’d still think it was the best cereal I ever had. Just because he made it for me.

 

After dinner, I grab my sketchbook from the place it still sits by the backdoor. Marco sinks down into the couch and lets out a long sigh, holding his belly while complaining that he’s too full.

 

“You had four rolls,” I laugh, opening up to the page I had been working on just last night, right before Marco had handed me that cup of cocoa and said those three small words that changed everything.

 

“So did you,” he groans.

 

“I know. I’m a _beast._ ”

 

“You sound like Reiner.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

After a minute, he peeks an eye open at me; I can feel him staring across the room, but I make sure to hover over my sketchbook enough so that he can’t see what I’m drawing on the page.

 

“So, uh,” he starts, “whatcha sketching?”

 

“Can’t show you until it’s done.”

 

“Come ooooooon,” he groans, and I laugh because at this point I’m just fucking with him. “Will you be done with it soon?”

 

“Definitely,” I smile, “but not today.”

 

He sighs, but turns on the television and starts to occupy himself by looking through movie channels. I keep drawing, because I haven’t had the chance today while we were out, but I know I have to finish it by tomorrow.

 

This is Marco’s Christmas present.

 

The night passes quickly. I get lost in the drawing and trying to get the image just right – though it’s hard because I’m drawing from equal parts memory and fiction. Giuliana walks in the door around ten and gives Marco a kiss on the forehead, announcing that she’s exhausted and is heading to bed. Marco doesn’t even bring up the fact that there’s no food left in the house, he just tells her to get a good night’s rest and watches her cross the room.

 

I flip my sketchbook shut in case she sees what it is I’m drawing, and when she sees me do it, she smiles softly.

 

“Goodnight, Jean,” she says, and before I can say the same, she bends down, places a gentle hand on my shoulder, and kisses my forehead in the same way she had Marco.

 

She’s already halfway down the hallway before I find the words to reply.

 

“Um,” I sputter, “uh, g-goodnight.”

 

Marco looks over at me and laughs. “She really likes you, y’know.”

 

At this simple statement, I brighten. I hope he’s right. Giuliana’s approval is something that I want purely out of selfishness.

 

I keep working on the drawing until sometime around midnight, and as I’m making my final pencil etchings, I hear soft snores coming from the couch where Marco is sprawled out. I look over my shoulder at him and see the remote dangling from his fingertips over the side of the couch. His mouth is slightly agape and he has that look of innocence plastered all over his face.

 

 _Stupid,_ I think. _Who gave you the right to snore like a fucking sweet baby angel?_

 

Before I wake him, I carefully extract the page from my sketchbook, tearing at the perforations along the spiral closure, and stare for a moment at my work. My stomach turns as I set my pencil down. I just really hope he likes it.

 

Since I don’t really have any way of wrapping it, I decide to slide it within the thickest portion of my sketchbook, between two blank pages to keep it wrinkle-free until the morning. Then I stow the sketchbook beside the backdoor and crawl back across the floor to where Marco still sleeps soundly.

 

Carefully, I slide the remote out of his hand and flick off the movie he was watching; it’s Spiderman – the one with Tobey Maguire, the one everybody says they hate. Well, fuck ‘em. I liked that movie.

 

 _Alright,_ I think, crossing off items in my mental checklist. _Everything else is done. Now I just gotta put this guy to bed._

 

“Hey,” I say, “Marco.” I press a hand to his chest and shake him lightly, and after a few slow moments, his eyes blink open. He starts to wake up after stretching his arms and legs out, his shoulders shaking as he does so. And then he looks at me – _really_ looks at me, taking me in and smiling a little to himself.

 

“Time for bed, I think,” I tell him softly.

 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

 

“Okay,” he says finally. I offer him a hand which he takes, and I help heave him off the couch. Except, once he stands, he doesn’t let go. He just readjust his hold on me and silently leads me down the hallway.

 

We enter his room, change into our pajamas, and hit the bed with a simultaneous thump. He sighs dreamily, then flicks off the lamp on his bedside table and snuggles down into the covers lumped over our shoulders.

 

“Jean,” he whispers.

 

“Yeah?”

 

He blinks twice. “Ah, I can’t see you.”

 

“It’s a twin bed,” I laugh, “are you blind?” But I don’t stop myself when I reach my hands toward him, searching for him in the dark, feeling the rough cotton of his worn shirt against my palms as I pull him toward me. I hear him sigh, feel his breath against my neck, and I smile.

 

“Finally,” he mumbles quietly to himself.

 

He’s half-awake, but the word resonates. It wells up inside me and makes me catch my breath, the swarm of butterflies in my stomach rising and falling with the movement of his chest against mine.

 

Our arms around each other, my face in his hair, tangled legs, warm breath, cinnamon.

 

And I still can’t believe it’s real.

 

_Finally._


	15. i choose you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for how long it's taken to get this out! It's been a really horrible week for me, and this was a really difficult chapter to write. Annie and I edited it for almost a full day, going through and fixing little mistakes but I also had to re-write big chunks multiple times to get it to sound right. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it and thank you for being so patient with me! (:

A soft knocking on the door stirs Jean and me from sleep.

 

“Boys?” Mom says from the other side, though she leaves the door closed as she speaks. “It’s nearly ten in the morning. Are you going to have Christmas breakfast or should I just put everything away for later?”

 

Groggy, I reach up to wipe at my eyes. “We’ll be out in a minute,” I tell her, my voice thick with sleep, making it sound deeper than normal. Beside me, Jean groans and buries his face further into the crook between my lifted head and shoulder.

 

A slow smile spreads across my face as I look at him, fighting to go back to sleep. I reach down to poke at his cheek, which only earns another groan from him; my finger swoops down and traces the outline of his thin lips and it makes mine tingle. Those lips that were once unknown and forbidden territory are now mine to kiss whenever I want.

 

So I do.

 

I lean down and press my lips softly to his, pulling away to watch as his eyes flutter open. He rolls over a little to look at me through heavy lidded eyes, and I greet him with a smile and another quick peck, unable to control myself. Every kiss, every touch… I never want to be without them again. Things that, just a few days ago, I had been craving and wishing for are now mine to take. I can’t help it – I’m greedy; I need him and I crave him.

 

“Merry Christmas, Jean,” I whisper, my lips hovering just inches above his. His eyes are closed, but when I speak, he slowly opens them to look at me. His cheeks are slightly pink, and I’m sure that mine are, too.

 

Even if we are together now, we’re both new to this. But there’s no one else that I would rather figure this stuff out with than him.

 

“This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he tells me.

 

Hearing this, my chest constricts with happiness. My entire body feels overwhelmed with this feeling – being with Jean, touching Jean in the most innocent ways, and having him lace our fingers together – it’s almost _too_ much. Too much happiness, too much of his wonderful scent and too much of _him_.

 

But at the same time, it’s just not enough.

 

“It’s only going to get better,” I promise him, resting my forehead against his. He smiles, one of the rare ones that show how happy he really is in this moment, and he nods a little. “Come on, my mom made breakfast.”

 

I move to get up, but he wraps his arms around me before I can, and he pulls me down for one last kiss. My eyes close, and I memorize this moment, committing it to memory. His scent mixed with fresh laundry, his nose brushing against my cheek, the way his lips feel against mine and how nothing has ever felt more right than this.

 

We manage to untangle ourselves with some work, both getting to our feet. We step out of my bedroom and head for the kitchen, where Mom is putting together two plates for us to eat. Under the tree, there are two very neatly wrapped presents and one on the counter that’s addressed to Angelo.

 

“Merry Christmas, boys!” Mom says in a cheerful tone, setting the plates in front of us. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and orange juice. I inhale deeply, my mouth watering as I pick up my fork and start eating. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Really good,” I tell her honestly, my eyes flitting to meet Jean’s, a small blush heating my face up. “How about you?”

 

Mom replies that she slept just fine and goes about cleaning up the kitchen while we eat. Jean and I both eat quickly, practically inhaling our food like vacuums.

 

Once we finish and Mom has washed our last dishes, we all sit down in the living room to open presents. Christmas in our house used to be really great – Angelo always would wake both Mom and I up so early that the sun wasn’t even up yet, and we would open all of our presents, eat breakfast, and then manage to fall asleep again. This year, we barely concerned ourselves with presents. We had hospital bills to pay, and we were most worried about paying those to keep Angelo alive. So I was surprised when Mom placed the two neatly wrapped presents from under the tree into both my lap, as well as Jean’s.

 

“It’s not much,” she says, leaning forward to pick up her cup of coffee from the table, “but I hope you like them.”

 

“You didn’t have to…” we both start, and she waves us off, smiling happily.

 

“It’s really not much. I wanted to.”

 

We both exchange a glance before we unwrap the presents. I swallow hard, looking from the object in my hands, up to Mom, and back down at it. It’s a nice picture frame with the photo of Jean and I that she’d taken just the other day. My picture is the one of us with our arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling big – Jean’s giving me bunny ears in it.

 

Jean’s got a matching frame, but his picture is different. It’s the one she snapped when we weren’t looking at her. I’d turned to him to playfully hit him for giving me bunny ears and ruining the nice picture, and he’s leaning away, with his arm still around my shoulders. And we’re laughing, our eyes locked on each other as if no one else mattered.

 

“Thank you, Giuliana,” Jean says, his voice sounding a little choked. He smiles at her, then looks at me.

 

“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her before reaching over to give her a hug.

 

Small, but with a big impact. She didn’t know – I hadn’t told her about Jean and I yet, after all, though it was beginning to weigh heavy on my conscious – but she’d taken the first picture of us together that could represent something. Our first Christmas together. The one that changed everything.

 

There’s a shift happening again, I can feel it the way someone can feel the Earth shaking when there’s an earthquake. A shift that is finally, _finally_ putting things into their proper slots, matching up.

 

A picture, a memory, a special moment that I never want to forget. And I hold it in my hands so I can look back anytime I want.

 

“I’m going to get ready to visit Angelo,” Mom says, standing up and ruffling both of our bed hair. “Are you going to come?”

 

Jean and I exchange a look and I nod my head. “Yeah, we’re coming with you,” I reply, which makes her smile. She heads down the hall to her bedroom to change and get herself dressed for the day.

 

“Want to exchange our gifts now, too?” I ask.

 

“Hell yeah! Let me go grab mine real quick!” He jumps up from the couch and grabs his sketchbook that’s leaning up against the wall by the back door. I get up and head for the computer desk where I stashed mine to keep it hidden, unfolding it and laughing to myself. I sit back down on the couch and wait patiently for him to return. “Okay! I want to see yours first.”

 

I struggle to contain my giggles as I hand the piece of paper over to him.

 

“I’m sorry, I just… I’m really not good at art. This was the best that I could do.”

 

My best was digging through Angelo’s side of the room until I found one of his old coloring books. _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the Activity Book!_ I’d flipped through while Jean had been in the shower the night we discussed presents, and then, I’d found the perfect picture.

 

It’s of two of the turtles (even the names escape me; it’s been years since I’ve watched the show honestly) dressed in a disguise of some sort. They look like regular street thugs with sunglasses, hats and several layers of sweatshirts and jackets. I’d taken the time to add freckles to the smiling one, while I also enhanced the one that looks a little less enthusiastic. An arrow points to his head, labeled ‘Jean’ with angry eyebrows and a more refined frown.

 

Jean just looks at me, his eyebrows pull together in what I can only register to be shock. And surprisingly enough, he looks _exactly_ like how the turtle in the picture does.

 

“Why…” he pauses to lick his lips, our eyes still locked and I’m sure my face is red because I’m trying so hard not to laugh. “Why do I look so goddamned angry?”

 

I can’t help it – I laugh so hard that I spit all over his face, which only makes him _more_ mad. He wipes his face and glares at me, not saying another word as I wipe the tears from my eyes and try to recompose myself.

 

“Sorry,” I say, though it sounds breathless and not sincere in the least through my giggles.

 

Jean lifts the picture I colored for him and finally cracks a smile. “I mean… at least you tried. But you didn’t give yourself enough freckles.”

 

I smile at him as he pokes at my cheeks, as if to show them as an example of what he means. I catch his hand and lace our fingers together, just for a second, before we’re both pulling away with blushes on our cheeks.

 

“S-so,” he stammers a bit, trying to regain his usual cool composure, “I drew you something. I hope you like it.”

 

He pulls a piece of paper out from between his sketchbook pages and hands it to me. I flip the paper over in my hands, my eyes scanning the pencil sketch marks. I bring a hand up to cover my mouth as tears fill my eyes, threatening to spill over. My breathing is shallow as I stare down at a drawing of Angelo, as good as any photograph taken with a camera.

 

He looks like he does now, laying down like he’s asleep in a bed but all of the machines and monitors are gone. His hair is cut in the same stupid asymmetrical cut that Mom did a few weeks ago, but his face looks fuller, and he’s got a soft smile in Jean’s drawing, though his eyes are still closed. It looks like he’s dreaming.

 

My chest is tight and I’m feeling so much that I don’t know how to convey it to him properly. How grateful I am for him, for this, for everything since he’s come into my life.

 

I look at him and I try to tell him. I try to tell him that I love him and to thank him for this, because it’s perfect and it’s wonderful just like he is. And I end up choking because I feel too much for Jean, and it’s like this wonderful feeling like my whole body is consumed by this gratitude for him being in my life.

 

“Hey…” Jean whispers, reaching up to wipe away a stray tear that falls down my cheek.

 

I bow my head and sniffle, using the back of my wrist to wipe my wet eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper but my voice is choked still. “This is… perfect.”

 

A knowing smile spreads on his lips as our eyes meet, mine still tearful. I look down at the drawing of my little brother again, and I let out a sigh. His thoughtfulness is the best Christmas present that I’ve ever received.

 

I wrap my arms around Jean’s shoulders, pulling him close to me, my fingers still holding tightly to my present. He wraps his around me, too, returning my embrace with equal warmth and tightness. I only pull away when I hear Mom’s footsteps coming down the hall.

 

When Mom emerges from her room, dressed nicely now, Jean excuses himself to take a shower and get ready.

 

Mom sits down on the couch beside me, leaning over to tie her winter boots on her feet. Watching her for a moment, I find my stomach tightening. Growing up, I was always the honest kid. I never lied to my mother about anything serious, even if Angelo knew how to spit out lies like it was his job. So hiding my relationship with Jean from her has been slowly eating away at me, and making me feel more and more guilty. At first, I didn’t think too much about it, but sitting with her now, alone without Jean as a buffer, I feel the guilt again.

 

I think about Jean, and how we both can only hold each other’s hands in the privacy of an empty home, or in my bed in the dark, with the blankets pulled up over our heads. It makes me feel sick, because Jean deserves so much more than that, and because I _want_ so much more than that.

 

I sigh, which catches Mom’s attention and causes my cheeks to heat up.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her brow furrowing as she sits up straight again. “Do you have a fever? Your face is all red.”

 

“N-no,” I tell her weakly, trying to smile as I gently push her hand away from my forehead. “I’m fine.”

 

She still looks worried, which makes the knot in my stomach tighten even more. My eyes flit nervously from each of the Jesus encouragements hanging on the wall; the one that reads _What would Jesus do?_ stands out for the first time to me. Slowly, my eyes return to her and she still looks worried. _What will she think?_ I wonder, as I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat, threatening to close it up and keep me from breathing. _What will she say?_

 

It’s not that I’ve ever felt like she would hate me or disown me for being different. Even if I’m not the standard human that the church we go to tells us to be, Mom doesn’t believe in hating anyone, ever. It’s not that I’ve been trying to keep it a secret that I like Jean, either. I just never said anything because I never thought Jean would like me in the same way in a million years. So I never really had a reason to tell her.

 

Until now.

 

Coming out with the truth about liking Jean shouldn’t be as hard as it is. But as I try to tell her, I remember the preacher talking about it being sinful. As I open my mouth, I remember that I can’t even just straight out tell her that I know what I am, because I’m still figuring it all out. Because every time I try to speak, I realize that this is a moment that could change our relationship forever.

 

Sitting beside her on the couch, my mouth is dry and I can’t seem to find the words that I owe myself to tell, and that she deserves to hear, because I’m scared.

 

“Marco? I’m starting to get really worried…” she brushes her fingers against my forehead and I frown deeply in thought, catching her hand and holding it in mine to give me the courage to just spit it out already.

 

“I’m sorry, I just don’t really know how to say it.” I sigh again, looking down at my hands holding hers. The hands that always used to feel my forehead to check for a fever, and the hands that would tuck my into bed or comb my hair for me before picture day at school.

 

“Honey, you can tell me anything,” she says softly, squeezing my hands in a comforting manner.

 

A million possibilities flash through my mind. A million words she could say, or not say, or do or not do.

 

“Marco?” she whispers. I meet her eye for the first time since she sat down and she’s looking at me worriedly but her eyes are so full of love. It makes the knot in my stomach tighten even more, because I’m so scared that I won’t see this look again. I let out a long breath, it’s now or never.

 

“Jean and I…” I pause, chancing a glance at her before continuing, “…are together.”

 

Mom pulls back from me, her eyebrows arching high and for a second, I’m scared that she’s going to start crying. I feel like my body is numb and I don’t know what to do. Every breath feels like my lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen, but no matter how much I take in, I can’t seem to make my chest stop hurting. Then, just as I’m starting to really panic, she’s laughing, patting my hands with hers.

 

“Is that all?” she asks and I blink a few times, surprised. This was not one of the million scenarios that had played out in my mind just moments before the words tumbled out. “Honey, I thought you two were together before you even came home for break.”

 

“W-what?” I sputter, my eyes wide and a blush coloring my cheeks and heating my face in embarrassment.

 

“You talked about him _all the time_ ,” she explains, waving a hand dismissively in front of her face. “I don’t even remember what your other friend’s names are, only Jean’s. And when you two came here for break together, I just assumed you were together. Plus, you’ve been sharing your bed instead of offering for him to use the pullout couch.”

 

My face is in flames and I try to cover it by coughing nervously into my fist, averting my gaze. A nervous habit that I have picked up from Jean over the months.

 

“W-well I…” I stop because I have only personal, selfish reasons for not telling Jean that we even _have_ a pullout couch.

 

And those reasons are a little shameful, I’ll admit.

 

“I approve,” Mom whispers as the bathroom door opens and Jean walks out, dressed in a pair of jeans and an old Say Anything t-shirt that looks more worn than any other shirt I’ve ever seen him in.

 

My heart swells as she touches my shoulder and smiles, the small wrinkles around her eyes appearing. I watch Mom walk into the kitchen to start making coffee to bring in to-go cups, humming as she works. Watching her, I feel like my entire body is overwhelmed with love. She so willingly accepted me, even if some parents would be against it. She catches my eye, and my heart can rest easy when I see that she still looks at me the same way she had before – her gaze full of love.

 

Her love and acceptance makes the knot in my stomach untangle, and my shoulders relax. It’s like more shifts are happening everywhere – like this is something that is supposed to happen. It makes being with Jean feel even more right, like I’m following a plan that has been in motion this whole time.

 

I head to the bathroom to take a shower and get myself ready, pausing in the hallway to smile at Jean and squeeze his hand gently, causing his face to turn a little pink. His eyes to dart toward Mom before he mimics my action when he sees that she’s not paying us any attention.

 

Once I finish washing up and getting dressed in whatever clothes I grab first, I head out to put my shoes and coat on. Jean’s wrapping the scarf I gave him around his neck, and I catch his eye and smile.

 

Mom drives us to the hospital with the radio playing Christmas music. I sit up front with her while Jean stretches out in the backseat with his sketchbook on his lap. It takes a long time to get there, because the roads are so bad due to the massive pile of snow that poured down on us over night.

 

When we arrive, it’s nearly two in the afternoon. The nurses wave at us and bid us a Merry Christmas. They stop to thank Mom for the cookies she brought in the other day, and while they talk, Jean and I head for Angelo’s room.

 

“Merry Christmas, Angelo!” I say, ruffling his hair a little and sitting down in the usual chair. His room is lit up by the plug in Christmas tree by his bed, which makes it all seem less bleak.

 

Jean sits on the couch by the window that’s against the wall to give me privacy with Angelo. Usually he sketches and makes small amendments about whatever story I’m telling, interrupting me to add something else that happened or that I’m saying it all wrong. If Angelo can hear us, I’m sure he thinks we argue like an old married couple about remembering things a little differently.

 

Mom steps into the room a few moments later, and she crosses the room to give Angelo a kiss right on top of his head. “Merry Christmas, baby,” she whispers, setting the bag she brought with her on the bed. She pulls out a red, knitted scarf that she spent the past few weeks working on.  
  
I help lift Angelo’s motionless body as she wraps it around his neck to keep him warm in the cold hospital room.

 

Mom sits down on the side of the bed while I occupy the chair, and we talk to him. We tell him how Christmas wasn’t quite the same, but how it wasn’t as sad as we were expecting. I tell him it’s because Jean’s with us, which makes Jean’s cheeks turn slightly pink.

 

And then Mom says, “You’ll get a cavity just looking at them. They’re too sweet.”

 

Jean and I both turn red at that. “ _Mom!_ ” I say loudly, covering my face a little as she laughs sweetly, throwing her head back. “I didn’t tell him that I told you yet!”

 

“Marco!” Jean chokes out. “ _WHAT_!”

 

Mom laughs harder, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

 

I give Jean an apologetic smile, my face blushing fiercely, and he just shakes his head, but he’s smiling, too.

 

We stay for a few hours. When Jean and I get hungry, we decide to grab lunch at the café on the first floor to give Mom some alone time with Angelo. We don’t hold hands on the way down, because I think he’s still worried that people will look at us the way that man did after church. So I don’t push and I don’t ask.

 

In the café, we joke around and laugh and talk. Jean’s phone buzzes with texts from Reiner, asking if we’re still interested in spending New Years with him and Bertholdt. They promise to pick us up in a few days around noon and Jean gives him my address so they can use a GPS to find us.

 

“You’re not too mad that I told my mom, right?” I ask as we head toward the elevators to return to the room.

 

“No,” he says, pushing the button to go up. “She seems like she took it really well.”

 

“Actually… she already knew before I even said it,” I reply, biting my lip and chancing a glance down at him. “She thought we were together even before we got here.”

 

Jean laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he gets nervous or is at a loss for words. “Well, I guess we did sort of act like it…” He shrugs at me and we step onto the elevator.

 

I think about this for a minute and I almost want to laugh at how stupid we were for not realizing it sooner. Bowling dates, matching sweaters, sharing our bed when we couldn’t sleep or just wanted to talk… it all seems so obvious now that I know.

 

When the doors slide closed and I push the button for the proper floor for the ICU, I feel Jean’s hand brush against mine. Glancing down at him, I see that he’s blushing a little but he’s got a small smile on his lips, like he’s trying not to act happy. My chest feels tight, and suddenly, he grabs my hand and laces our fingers together.

 

“You sure?” I whisper, even if no one else is in the elevator.

 

Jean looks up at me now, meeting my gaze, and he smiles. “Yeah,” he says, his voice quiet. “I’m sure.”

 

We walk hand-in-hand to the room, and no one gives us a second look. This seems to help Jean gain some confidence, because he makes it more prominent as we walk that we’re holding hands. He starts swinging our hands, walks closer to me, looks up at me and gives me big cheese smiles.

 

I’m so proud of him that I lean down to kiss his cheek, which turns him into a sputtering mess as he looks around and blushes fiercely. I laugh and open the door, stepping inside with him, still a mess with embarrassment.

 

Even though he’s still embarrassed with the newness of it all, he still doesn’t let go of my hand. It makes my whole body do this strange thing – my heart skips a beat, my stomach has butterflies and my heart is so full that my chest feels tight.

 

It’s such a wonderful feeling that I can’t even describe it right.

 

“Have a nice lunch?” Mom asks, smiling at us both.

 

Being surrounded by the people who matter the most and having them accept you as you are… there are no words to describe that, either. I squeeze Jean’s fingers between mine, where they fit so perfectly, and return my mother’s smile.

 

“Yeah,” I tell her honestly, “it was really nice.”

* * *

Jean and I spend the next few days doing one of two things. Either we’re at the hospital visiting Angelo, or we’re at my house snuggled under a bunch of blankets and getting used to each other and being able to touch each other or kiss whenever we want to. We start to get used to this new feeling of moving from friends to boyfriends.

 

When New Years Eve comes around, Jean and I pack a bag together with clothes and pajamas. He lets me wear one of his shirts, and I decide on his Trost Uni hoodie, pulling it on over my head and shamelessly sneaking sniffs when he isn’t looking.

 

We bundle up in our coats and scarves and stand outside at noon so that Reiner and Bertholdt know which house is mine. We’re only outside for a minute when the car – which is blasting some kind of loud music with a lot of bass – pulls up in front of the curb. The window rolls down and Reiner is nodding his head to the beat of whatever they’re listening to, a coy smile playing on his lips.

 

“Yo!” he calls to us as we make our way through the snow. “You guys ready to bring in the new year drunk as skunks?”

 

Jean rolls his eyes as he gets into the back seat, tossing our shared luggage onto the floor at our feet. I slide in next and shut the door, both of us buckling our seatbelts.

 

Bertholdt reaches forward to turn the volume down, which makes Reiner whine.

 

“Oh, come on, Bertl! It’s the best part!” he says and Bertholdt turns to look at us in the backseat.

 

“You have everything you need?” he asks, his voice quiet per usual. “It’s more than an hour’s drive, so double check while we’re still here.”

 

I go through the bag and make sure we each have our underwear, pajamas and clothes for tomorrow before giving him a thumbs up. He smiles and turns around his seat, putting the car into drive and starting the trek back to his house.

 

“Thanks for inviting us,” I say, leaning my head forward between the two.

 

“You know, we actually were starting to miss you guys,” Reiner says, which makes Jean snort. “How’s your breaks been going?”

 

I sit back and relax as we talk about our breaks. Bertholdt and Reiner spent theirs at Bertl’s house the whole time, going out on dates and having an overall good time together (aside from Christmas when Reiner had to go home and they were apart for a whole day. Reiner dramatically describes this as the Darkest Day of His Life Thus Far).

 

Jean and I tell him about our break, but we leave out anything involving our relationship. Earlier, while we were packing, we already decided together that we didn’t want to tell anyone from school yet. While it’s not like we want it to be a secret relationship, we just are still in the process of getting used to it ourselves. And as soon as Reiner knows, we both know that he’ll never leave it alone.

 

When we’re done talking and a comfortable silence fills the car, Reiner puts the music back on.

 

Up front, I watch as Reiner takes one of Bertholdt’s hands in his, resting them on the center console and lacing their fingers together. Reiner nods his head to the music, and Bertholdt uses his free hand to steer the car, his eyes on the road ahead of him while keeping a steady (and slightly slow) speed on the express way.

 

Jean takes my hand, causing me to look at him, surprised. He’s looking out his window, but he slowly intertwines our fingers, rubbing the top of my hand with his thumb for a moment. I blush, looking down at my lap, and squeeze his hand softly. He finally looks over at me, our eyes meeting, and we exchange a secretive smile.

 

The drive goes by quickly. Reiner forces us to listen to his own personal rendition of _One Day More_ from the soundtrack of Les Miserables. He somehow knows every single part, and sings them all. By the end of the song, he’s so out of breath that it seems like he ran a marathon.

 

Bertholdt pulls into the drive way of his house, pressing a button on his key ring that makes the garage door open. I stare out my window, taking in Bertholdt’s house. It’s a typical big house in a suburb – two stories, blue window shutters, a huge tree out front and a fenced in backyard. The view escapes my eyes as we pull into the dark garage, the door falling shut behind the car.

 

Bertholdt shuts the car off and we all get out; Jean grabs the bag from the floor of the backseat and we follow them inside through the side door.

 

A shrill barking fills my ears and the sound of nails on hardwood floor. A small puff catches the corner too fast and slides into the wall, barking at us loudly. Jean grins and bends down to try and pet it, and it snaps at him.

 

“Whoa!” he shouts, yanking his arm back just in time. “Holy shit, Bertholdt! What is that thing?”

 

“Sorry!” Bertholdt says, bending down and picking the little fluff up into his arms. It’s brown colored and it’s so fluffy that I can barely see its face. “S-she, uh, doesn’t really like new people.”

 

“Aw, what’s her name?” I coo, letting the dog sniff my hand. It sniffs for a moment and allows me to pet her. Behind me I hear Jean say, “WHAT” which only makes all of us laugh.

 

“Princess,” Bertholdt replies, his cheeks lighting up a little.

 

“What the fuck,” Jean says as Princess snarls at him again, even though he’s not moved an inch. Reiner laughs and picks the puff up from his boyfriend’s arms, kissing his face and making little noises that Princess seems to enjoy and walking to the kitchen with him.

 

Reiner grabs us all beers, handing one to each of us before they start the tour of the house so we’re familiar with everything. Jean cracks his open with ease, but I have to hand my bottle over to him after struggling with it enough to earn me red marks on my hand.

 

Bertholdt shows us around, telling us where each of the bathrooms are so we can find them later even when it’s dark. He opens the door to the guest room, where we’ll be sleeping. “Sorry we only have one room,” he tells us with an apologetic look on his face. “We have a pullout couch in the basement, if you don’t want to share a bed.”

 

“Nah, they’ve shared their bed back at the dorm before,” Reiner informs him, his eyes moving over to Jean who gives him a glare. “When Marco was drunk off his ass. Jean was trying to hit on him or something.”

 

“I was not!” Jean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “ _He_ pulled _me_ into the bed!”

 

I giggle and say, “Sorry!”

 

Bertholdt smiles at the little fight. “Well, then if you don’t mind, it should be no problem. Let me know if you decide one of you wants the pullout, though. Okay?”

 

They finish the tour in the living room, where the flat screen TV is on the news channel that’s showing all of festivities of New Years Eve. Miley Cyrus is singing on a stage on screen; Reiner hums along to the song as he leads us back to the kitchen to grab himself another beer after chugging his entire first one in a matter of 15 minutes.

 

“Did you guys bring your swim suits?” Reiner asks, earning a strange look from Jean and I.

 

“No, why would we?” Jean replies, raising an eyebrow at him.

 

“Because Bertl’s got a hot tub!” Reiner exchanges a look with Bertholdt and shrugs. “Shit, sorry. I forgot to tell you guys to bring some.”

 

“I’ve got a few extra,” Bertholdt offers kindly, “if you guys want.”

 

We follow him upstairs to his bedroom to check out the swim suits. He opens his closest doors as Reiner plops down on his bed, laying on his stomach and flipping through a magazine that was on the floor. I glance at Jean, who tips his head back to take a swig of his beer, before stepping up to look at the choices Bertholdt has.

 

“You can just look through them,” he says, showing me where they start. “I have a couple old ones that will probably fit you guys.”

 

“Thanks, Bertholdt,” I say and he smiles in response, moving to sit down next to Reiner, who easily wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. I smile at them before starting to look over the choices with Jean leaning against the door jam, waiting for me to pick one out.

 

They’re all pretty basic swim trunks. Blue plaid, a black pair, and another blue pair with a strange pattern. I’m about to just grab one of the blue ones when I see it.

 

“What is this?” I ask, pulling it out and holding it up for everyone to see.

 

It looks like a black, man thong with suspenders. But it’s made out of swim suit material, so overall, I’m extremely confused. When I hold it up for everyone to see, Bertholdt’s face turns bright red and Jean chokes on his beer, spitting it out and covering his mouth to stifle his laughing.

 

“Holy fucking shit!” Jean says, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Beer just fucking came out of my nose!”

 

Reiner laughs, too, shaking his head a little. “That’s Bertl’s _mankini_ ,” he explains, which only makes poor Bertholdt’s face turn even more red. For a second, I’m scared that his head is going to blow up because I’ve never seen someone’s face so red.

 

Bertholdt starts to sweat a little, wiping at his forehead like it’s going to make his face cool down. “I, uh, thought I threw that away,” he says quietly, looking over his shoulder at his boyfriend. Reiner’s got this big smile on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh again.

 

“I’m glad you didn’t!” he says, which makes Jean spit again.

 

I hold it up in front of Jean, which makes Reiner burst out laughing. “It’s your size, Jean,” I tell him. He gives me a hard glare and shoves it away, vehemently protesting.

 

“Fuck that. There is no way you could get me into that thing.”

 

Laughing, I hang it back up in its rightful place in the closet before pulling out a blue swim suit and the black ones, handing Jean the black ones. He takes them slowly, side eyeing me. I take the bathroom to change while he takes the guest room.

 

The swim trunks are a little long on me, but they fit overall. I tie them in the front and head out, putting my clothes into the guest room when Jean steps out, the black trunks falling around his thin waist as he ties it up front.

 

“I’m just saying, the mankini would fit you better.”

 

“Marco!” Jean shouts and I laugh, making him scowl at me. I bump my shoulder with his, which seems to earn a small smile from him.

 

We all finish our beers before we get into the hot tub. Braving the snow and cold to get to the hot tub is the worst part; I hop around with my arms around my chest as my body convulses with shivers and goosebumps pop up along my skin. I practically jump in after Bertholdt and Jean, sighing with relief as the steaming water touches my bare skin. I settle down, letting the water rush over me and curing the goosebumps. Reiner is the last to join us, holding a new beer for all of us, already opened.

 

“Ahhh,” Reiner says as he sits down in the hot water, getting comfortable. His arm automatically goes up along the edge of the hot tub, around Bertholdt’s shoulders. Bertholdt’s eyes are closed as he relaxes, slumping over and letting all of his chest up to his neck get immersed in the water.

 

I take a sip of my beer, closing my eyes, too. It feels really nice, and I try to remember the last time I sat in a hot tub and could just relax.

 

Jean’s arm snakes its way up around my shoulders in the same way Reiner’s is. I open my eyes to peak over at him, but he’s not looking at me, and is tipping his head back to drink more of his beer.

 

It’s uncomfortable and giving my neck a weird kink. But I don’t want to tell him, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. So I bite my lip and try to adjust myself, but the whole thing is just awkward.

 

Reiner’s eyes are open, watching us with a raised eyebrow.

 

Realizing this, Jean moves his arm away from me, running his hand through his hair as if that’s what he meant to do to begin with. Then he lets his hand fall into the water, looking around Bertholdt’s deck with mild curiosity.

 

“Dude,” Reiner says, making everyone – Jean included – look at him, “what the fuck was that?”

 

“I was stretching,” Jean mumbles, breaking eye contact to drink more beer, if only for something to do. I want to laugh, because he’s so embarrassed, but I don’t and instead just smile down at the water.

 

“Wow, okay then, bitch,” Reiner says, making me choke on my beer in surprise. Jean’s cheeks turn bright pink and he looks up at Reiner with wide eyes, shock written all over his face.

 

“Reiner…” Bertholdt says but Reiner’s cackling makes it almost impossible to hear him.

 

We spend a lot of time in the hot tub. After our second beers, Jean and I decide not to drink anymore, mostly because the last thing I want is to go home and see Mom with a hangover. That doesn’t stop Reiner, though. He keeps pulling beers out and chugging them until he’s so drunk, that he’s slurring every other sentence he’s saying.

 

Most of the time is spent laughing at Reiner. He reveals a lot of secrets when he’s drunk, and he laughs so hard he snorts a few times.

 

“You know that mankini upstairs?” Reiner whispers loudly to us, as if Bertholdt can’t hear him even though he’s sitting right next to him. “I have a matching one at home!”

 

Jean and I both bite our lips, looking at Reiner and Bertholdt. Reiner is grinning like this is the proudest thing of his life, and Bertholdt’s face is red again.

 

“It’s neon green,” he continues, looking off in the distance with a pleased look on his face.

 

Hours are spent this way. When we get too hot and our fingers start to prune, we move to the living room to watch TV but Reiner still manages to talk louder than the TV to tell us story after story. He sprawls out across Bertholdt’s lap, who looks uncomfortable with displaying so much affection in front of us.

 

“Hey,” Reiner says, poking the back of Jean’s head to get his attention, “heeeeeey Jeanie boy!”

 

Jean scoffs and turns around to look at Reiner. “Don’t call me that,” he says, irritated. “Jesus, Reiner. You’re the biggest drunk.”

 

Reiner giggles – an actual giggle comes out of his mouth – and pokes Jean’s face again. “You’re so angry all the time. Lemme give you some advice, okay?” Jean doesn’t reply; I see his eyes narrow at Reiner who seems totally unaware. “Ready? Okay, dude, you gotta get _laid_!”

 

“Reiner!” Bertholdt gasps, putting a hand over his giggling boyfriend’s mouth in attempt to shut him up.

 

Jean’s cheeks are red and I feel my face heating up as well. We don’t look at each other for a good ten minutes after that.

 

It’s a little after eleven when Reiner gets to be _too_ much. Bertholdt helps him up, walking with his arm around his shoulders and carrying most of his weight to the stairs, trying to keep him quiet.

 

“I’m going to put him to bed,” he tells us as Reiner goes in for a big smooch. Bertholdt covers his face with his hand, shaking his head. “Feel free to watch whatever on the TV, okay?”

 

“Thanks, Bertholdt,” I tell him.

 

“Good luck with the beast,” Jean adds, which makes him laugh a little.

 

Jean flips through the channels on the TV for a few minutes, both of us sitting on the floor with our backs leaning against the couch behind us. He stops when he reaches a different channel where the ball is dropped live with a lot of celebrities singing before hand. He shrugs and tosses the remote up onto the couch behind us.

 

For a few minutes, it’s quiet in the house, save for the TV on a low volume. Then, a new sound fills our ears, and causes us to look up at the ceiling above us.

 

A bed frame hitting a wall and a distant slapping sound that’s all too familiar to my ears.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Jean says, his face completely straight.

 

I cover my face with my hands, laughing and shaking my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

 

“I should have known,” Jean sighs, looking back at the TV to try and ignore it. But with the loud keens and moans, it takes a lot of effort to ignore it.

 

“ _Ah SHIT,_ ” comes Reiner’s loud moaning from upstairs, “ _FUCK ME,_ _BERTL!_ ”

 

Jean grabs a pillow from the couch and covers his ears. His head falls onto my shoulder and I pat the pillow comfortingly. The ravenous moaning continues for what feels like a really long time, followed by an extremely dragged out screech that I can’t actually believe is coming from Bertholdt.

 

We focus on TV, where Ke$ha is now singing, to try and drown out Reiner and Bertholdt’s sexcapades happening upstairs. As it nears midnight and the new year is upon us, the house gets quiet again. Jean sighs with relief, dropping the pillow to the floor.

 

“So,” I say, drawing out the ‘o’ at the end for a minute, “I noticed that you were copying Reiner today.”

 

His eyes snap up to me and he sits up straight. “I’m not copying what just happened, Marco.”

 

My face turns hot in a matter of seconds and I put my hands up. “NO! That’s not what I was implying—”

 

Jean blushes a little, coughing into his fist and clearing his throat. “I know,” he replies with a light laugh, but stops with a sigh. “I just… Honestly, I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

 

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. He looks embarrassed, so I reach out and take his hand, making him look at me. Slowly, as I intertwine our fingers together again, a smile unfolds on his thin lips, too.

 

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, either.”

 

The final minute of 2013 starts to countdown on TV and the ball starts to make its slow descend to bring in the New Year. I look at mine and Jean’s hands intertwined and then up at him to find that he’s already looking at me. His expression is hard to read, but as our eyes meet, he scoots closer to me.

 

“10,” the TV shouts excitedly, “9, 8, 7, 6…”

 

Jean removes his hand from mine. One of them goes to the back of my neck, while the other grabs the collar my shirt, tugging me toward him.

 

“5, 4, 3, 2…”

 

“One,” I whisper, closing the distance between us and kissing him.

 

His eyes slip closed and he pulls me closer, until we’re pressed against each other. His hand fists in my shirt, while mine rest flat against his chest. Our mouths move together effortlessly now, our noses brushing against one another’s. We’re used to this physical contact after all of our secret kisses shared in the darkness of my bedroom late at night.

 

But this one is different. This is a new first kiss – the first kiss of 2014.

 

And it looks like 2014 is going to be pretty promising.

* * *

We spend the first half hour of our New Year with our legs tangled together, laying on the floor of Bertholdt’s living room. We kiss and hold each other and talk in quiet voices about the new year and what we want to accomplish with this blank slate.

 

Eventually, we make it upstairs to the guest bedroom. We walk slowly, trying our best to be quiet so not to wake Reiner or Bertholdt, but the floor boards creak if you step on them wrong.

 

Jean freezes when his foot sets off a particularly loud creak.

 

“Shh!” I whisper, my finger up against my lips. He glares at me and jerks his chin toward the door, motioning for me to go next.

 

When we make it to the room and shut the door behind us, I have to cover my mouth to stop from laughing out loud. “You would make a horrible spy,” I tell him in a hushed voice, and that earns an elbow to my side.

 

He grins and pulls me into the bed, both of us getting under the blanket. His arms are around me immediately, as if being apart for just a few minutes to walk up the stairs was too long. I sigh happily, doing the same, and curling so we’re as close as possible. His toes are cold, so I rest my feet over them to warm them up. His fingers press against my back, holding me close as his face nestles into the spot between my head and shoulder.

 

The house is silent, save for our breathing and the distant sounds of Reiner’s loud snoring.

 

Closing my eyes, I feel like we’re back at Trost, in our dorm. The thought makes me feel strangely homesick, until Jean’s breathing evens out and I’m reminded that with him laying beside me, I am home.

 

Sighing happily, I snuggle closer to him and slowly fall asleep with him holding me tightly.

* * *

A quiet chiming noise rustles me from sleep. My eyes open lazily, trying to focus on my surroundings until I remember that I’m at Bertholdt’s house. Jean is still curled against me, his arms around me and my back facing him; my legs are dangling dangerously over the side, because he’d managed to take over the whole bed throughout the night.

 

It feels so right to wake up this way, like I’m waking up from a good dream, only to be placed into another one.

 

The quiet chiming noise continues and I realize a beat too late that it’s my phone.

 

I reach down and pick it up from the floor, where it sat face down. Opening it, the screen comes to life and my stomach flips upside down.

 

_(9) Missed Calls._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also please do not hate me I know I'm basically the cliff hanger queen. c:


	16. no sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

Marco doesn’t say anything on the ride back. I don’t want to ask about it, but my heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat and I can’t stop bouncing my legs or tapping my fingers on the armrest in the backseat. Reiner and Bertholdt are quiet up in front, and even though it might be partially due to Reiner’s massive hangover, I’m thankful the radio is off. The silence is bad, but listening to his shitty music would be a hundred times worse.

 

Marco doesn’t look at me the whole ride home. He keeps his eyes fixed out the window, or at his hands in his lap, or at the phone he keeps flipping open and shut like it’s going to go off at any moment.

 

I don’t want to bother him, but I’m worried. No, more than worried – I’m fucking terrified, because I don’t want to bare witness to what I know is about to happen when we get to the hospital… and I don’t want Marco to hurt anymore than he already does.

 

“Take the turn up here,” Marco instructs softly, leaning forward in his seat a little so that Bertholdt can better hear his voice. It’s almost as though it’s physically impossible for him to speak above a whisper.

 

“It could be something different,” Bertholdt says quietly, turning the wheel. “Maybe there was a miscommunication, you know?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Marco smiles, but I see the tears welling up in his eyes. It takes everything I can not to reach out to him – but I don’t because he’s got his arms wrapped around his shoulders, like he’s trying to distance himself from all of us. Even me.

 

Bertholdt pulls up in front of the hospital and time starts to creep. The back door to the minivan slides open at a snail’s pace, and it’s minutes before my feet hit the concrete. I somehow manage to grab our bag out of the backseat before Marco gets the chance to, and I force a thank-you out of my mouth before closing the door and waving.

 

After a moment, Marco rounds the car; his eyes are glued to the ground and his hands shoved way down deep into his pockets. The way he’s walking makes it look like his nerves are out of control, with jittery footsteps and an almost unnoticeable tremble in his shoulders.

 

He’s afraid.

 

And I don’t know how to help him.

 

We walk inside and immediately I take in our surroundings. The holiday decorations are still up, as though no time has passed at all. The ladies at the front desk look up at us and wave a little, but I see it in their eyes – they’re hesitant to smile. They know.

 

I’m first down the hallway, so I press the elevator button twice forcefully before stepping back. We only have to wait a moment before the doors open and we board, selecting floor four like we always do, only this time I hold my breath like my life depends on it. Like if I let it out, it’s all over.

 

“She said she didn’t want to talk to the doctor until I was there,” Marco whispers, his voice breaking through the quiet. He still won’t look at me. “She didn’t want to make the decision on her own.”

 

My mouth is dry. I don’t know what to say. I don’t fucking know what to even _think_ at this point. Everything is so broken and there isn’t a single thing I can do to piece it together. This isn’t something easy I can fix by taking him bowling or holding his hand or spitting out empty promises like _don’t worry, I know everything will be okay._ Because it isn’t. Nothing is.

 

We get off the elevator and make a beeline for the door which is presently shut, and immediately Marco turns the doorknob without wasting a second.

 

The first thing I notice is that the blinds are drawn on the window, which is strange because firstly, there’s hardly any sunlight seeping through the thick, dark gray clouds that threaten to spill snow over the entire town. Secondly, the blinds have never been shut before. Whenever we come to visit Angelo, there’s always an even natural light that fills the room, even when it isn’t a particularly sunny day.

 

It’s strange.

 

“Mom,” I hear Marco choke out. I look beside me at him as he straightens his shoulders, coughing into the crook of his elbow before crossing the room to the place where Giuliana sits at Angelo’s bedside. Her hair, which is pinned into a bun, appears to be falling out of place; a few strands fall against her forehead, while others have haphazardly come undone near her ears. The dark circles under her eyes look even darker than usual and there’s a surrounding redness which puffs her eyelids.

 

This woman, so small and caring and devoted and strong, seems to have unraveled alone in this hospital room.

 

Marco’s arms wrap around her and, all at once, she bursts. Like a hiccup, her chest heaves, tenses, and suddenly… she’s crying. No, not crying – sobbing. Shaking and grabbing at Marco’s collar with her fists. Holding onto him so tight, with every ounce of strength left in her, for dear life.

 

“Mom,” he keeps saying, “shh, shh.” But every time he speaks, his voice sounds more pained and I have to turn away. I can’t watch this anymore.

 

Slowly, I turn my eyes from the two, looking down at the bed where Angelo sleeps. His chest still moves up and down, the movement slight but… _God, at least he’s alive._ I can’t help the relief that washes over me, seeing him still breathing – albeit with the help of a machine.

 

“It’s been leading up to this,” Giuliana chokes out, “this whole time.”

 

Marco’s hand smoothes over her hair, calming the shaking in her shoulders. After a moment, she pulls away and wipes at her eyes with her fingertips. Marco grabs a tissue from the Kleenex box on Angelo’s bedside table to give to her, which she accepts with a light nod. Her makeup is starting to run.

 

“Um,” I manage, “should I grab a doctor? Or…”

 

Giuliana pulls away from her son and folds her arms across her chest. Wiping the last few tears from her eyes with the tissue, she shakes her head and offers a weak smile in response.

 

“They should be here shortly. They know you’re here.”

 

Marco bites his lip. “W-We didn’t sign in, or anything…”

 

“Trust me,” she says, slowly making her way toward the seat at Angelo’s bedside. “They know.” Gently, her hand moves to the bed and slides across the white cotton sheets to grab her son’s. His fingers don’t move as she curls hers around his, and she brings the back of his hand up to her lips.

 

I can almost see the light draining from her eyes when she lets their hands fall back to the bed; he’s warm, but he’s not moving. He’s alive, but only just. There’s no part of him that’s actually living anymore, not in the way they remember him living, anyway.

 

Marco’s eyes glaze over as his gaze settles on his brother. He doesn’t show it as much as he wants to, but I can tell how pained he is by just the shaking of his breath, so quiet that the only reason I can hear it is because I’m standing at his side. And I want to take his hand, to reassure him… I don’t. I can’t.

 

We eventually settle into uncomfortable silence; I take a seat near the window and Marco situates beside his mother. I don’t know what to do. As almost an hour passes without so much as a knock on the door, I start to question why I’m here at all. It’s like the hinges of my jaw are rusted shut, because no matter how hard I try to think of something to say, in the end, nothing sounds right. So I bite my nails and pick at the scab on my pointer finger, and I watch as families leave the hospital together in the parking lot below.

 

And all I can think about is how unfair it is that they get to have their happy ending while Marco and Giuliana sit in this sterile hospital room, struggling just to hold themselves together.

 

Finally the knock comes.

 

A man steps in, large black loafers clacking on the linoleum floor. The ends of his long white lab coat are stark, stiff, as though they’ve been pressed just before entering the room. A pair of oval, frameless glasses cover his gray eyes, and a single wisp of his slicked-back, yellow-blond hair falls on his forehead.

 

He nods once at all of us and offers us each a smile. It looks tired in the way that Giuliana’s does, with the dark circles lining just underneath his eyes and the corners of his lips turned downward the smallest of fractions. Maybe if I wasn’t going crazy in this hospital room, taking in every single detail just to distract myself from what is actually happening.

 

Marco stands and shakes the doctor’s hand.

 

“Doctor Smith,” Marco says. His voice sounds older. Just hearing him, I have to remind myself that this is the same boy whose nervous hands I had held on New Year’s Eve. The same boy who had so innocently traced my lips with his fingertips Christmas Day. Who I had taken care of when he got too drunk on Halloween. So many memories of Marco, and the side of him only I got to see.

 

Looking at him now, he seems a shell of the boy whose smile beams like sunlight.

 

“Marco,” the doctor smiles again, clapping him on the back. “It’s been a while. How’s school?”

 

“It’s fine,” he says starkly. Obviously this is no time for small talk, and when the doctor realizes this, he coughs into his fist.

 

“Ms. Bodt,” he says, his feet planted firmly on the ground. “Have you been well?”

 

She looks up at him and nods once. Her lips are a thin line, pursed soundlessly to avoid slipping up; this tension fills the room, making it difficult to breathe.

 

Finally the doctor’s eyes land on me, and when they do, I feel strange sitting. I scramble to my feet, dusting off my pants before crossing the room.

 

“Ah, Dr. Smith, this is Jean,” Marco says lightly, introducing us.

 

Dr. Smith smiles. “A friend from school?”

 

“Something like that,” I shrug, not wanting to get into it with this guy. I hold a hand out to him, and as he takes it, I shrink back a little at the firmness of his grip. He’s strangely intimidating, which I think is due to the fact that he stands a whole head and half taller than me and that his shoulders are nearly as broad as the length of my arm. The guy is huge.

 

“Nice to meet you, Jean,” he tells me, then straightens his back and smoothes his expression. I can’t read his eyes before he speaks again, but he folds his arms across his chest and his lips part, my stomach drops.

 

“You know why I’ve asked you both here today,” he sighs, his eyes flickering from Marco to Giuliana, then back again. “Angelo’s condition has not worsened, and all along, we’ve known that this was a good thing. But, our full-code care is transitioning to… a rather limited care.”

 

I can feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

 

“Our hospital employs the DFLST policy – which, as you’re aware, grants us with the decision to forgo life-sustaining therapy. With the changing times, and our economy… well, this decision should be in your hands. But we do have the final say in the matter.”

 

“We’ve known this for a while,” Giuliana nods, “but there was the agreement regarding our – my – finances, and the monthly bills toward Angelo’s hospital stay.”

 

She’s trying so hard to hold it together.

 

Her eyes close for a brief moment, regaining her composure. “This was the only hospital close enough for us to drive. We couldn’t… we don’t have the funds to relocate.”

 

Dr. Smith’s clear eyes look down at her sadly. “The hospital is aware of the financial agreement, but…” A beat passes, and the only sound in the room is the sound of Angelo’s heartbeat monitor. The doctor takes strides across the room, grabbing a chair and wheeling it toward him. He sits, stares down at the clipboard in his lap, and waits.

 

“You were aware of our policy,” he states. “We have your signature granting us _some_ authority to decide when the time comes, and… Ms. Bodt, I think we’ve both known for a while.”

 

Her eyes pinch shut tight. It isn’t until I see her hands ball up into fists that I realize mine are the same way. I look at Marco, at the back of his head as he stands facing the doctor at Angelo’s left, and look for the trembling; any visible sign that he needs me.

 

But he’s still putting up that wall.

 

“…It’s our job to keep people alive, but… that early-on acknowledgement of the likelihood of death is necessary for families, and in your case–”

 

“Dr. Smith,” Giuliana says like her tongue is a razorblade, words sharp as she spits them out and stares off into distance; not looking at Marco, or the man who sits with bent shoulders across the room. Not even at Angelo. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re taking my son away from me?”

 

The room falls quiet again.

 

“Giuliana,” he starts, but she stops him.

 

“You don’t have the right – this hospital doesn’t have the right, and I don’t care what some _damn_ piece of paper says.”

 

“We aren’t saying that,” Dr. Smith tries again. “Not yet. But… we’re just asking that you consider the possibility that, within – say – the next month, if things stay the same in your son’s health, that you make the decision.”

 

“‘The decision,’” she repeats softly, closing her eyes. When her voice returns, it sounds punctured. “The decision to end my child’s life.”

 

He waits before nodding, like he can’t say it himself. I wonder how many mothers he has had to break the news to, how many times he has had to converse about taking away the life of their loved one. It seems casual almost – the way he presents it is like a dinner topic, offhand and mentioned while in the middle of passing a dish.

 

I can’t believe what I’m fucking hearing.

 

“There is no scientific decision on whether or not to prolong life support,” he adds, then flips up a page on the clipboard to – probably – see what science decides. “In the case of Angelo Bodt, the probability for even a partial recovery is… low. Under 15%. Full recovery is even more unlikely, the percentages coming in at–”

 

“Excuse me.”

 

His voice is low. Marco, who stands with his shoulders back and head hung, slowly raises his eyes until they meet those of Dr. Smith. He’s tense. His nostrils are flared, and those fists at his sides seem to tighten. He’s seething, but there are only traces of it – mostly in his eyes. They spark up like the crack of a lighter as it ignites a flame… and it only takes a second.

 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this.

 

“He’s my brother.” Marco struggles to keep his voice even.

 

“Marco,” Giuliana starts, but says nothing more.

 

The doctor deflates a little; his fingers, which once had a piece of paper pinned between them, let go and let the clipboard fall to his lap. He pushes his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose and looks directly at Marco.

 

“Son,” he offers in what I’m assuming is the gentlest tone he can muster, “we know that these decisions take time… but I feel – and the hospital feels – that you both have been given _adequate_ time. And, sure, you might not be able to give us a green or red light today, but all that we’re asking is that you take into consideration… of what _Angelo_ would want.”

 

And with those words, all at once, Marco’s voice comes crashing through the room.

  
“How the _fuck_ would you know what my brother wants?!” he shouts, fisting his right hand in his brother’s bed sheets. “I don’t think you know. I don’t think I know. My mother doesn’t know. You can’t just speculate if an eleven-year-old child would want you to end his life!”

 

“I didn’t mean–” Dr. Smith starts, then cuts himself off. His tone is not so flat now, and when his words return, there is an edge. “It’s not a speculation, it’s just coming to terms with the fact that, given Angelo’s medical history within these past five months… well, recovery is not something we can necessarily bank on.”

 

“But what if he does?” Marco shouts back. “What then? Or even better, what if we just killed him now and took away that option? You don’t know… you don’t know…” His words trail off and he buries his mouth in his sleeve; the tips of his ears are flushed a hot crimson, and with tears welling up in his eyes he huffs loudly – like he’s struggling to breathe.

 

I glance at Giuliana and, silently, her wet eyes start to drain.

 

_This shit is so fucked._

 

Dr. Smith glances first at his clipboard before standing, removing his glasses as he does so. “I didn’t mean to… upset you both, that was not my intention. I just thought that ample time had been given… Which it clearly has not. I apologize.”

 

Marco turns away, not moving his face from his sleeve. Giuliana wipes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “No, I apologize. It’s just… we don’t really know how a situation… like this… um, should be handled.” She pauses. “We’ve been trying to prepare ourselves, and I guess we just…”

 

He coughs. “Ah, well it’s not something we can typically plan for. It’s not as though there’s a textbook answer to every situation. But it is worth considering, the thought of how long you want to continue to…”

 

“Drag it out,” Giuliana supplies, sitting up a little straighter now. It’s her turn to be strong, now that Marco’s will has worn out. Suddenly, her eyes meet mine; this is the first time since I was introduced to Dr. Smith that I have been given any sort of recognition, and I almost wish I could sink into the wallpaper and disappear. I would rather become invisible than see this look in her eyes.

 

“I would like to speak with you more about this,” he says, his voice regaining some strength. “Perhaps privately, if you would be more comfortable that way.”

 

Marco doesn’t move. He doesn’t protest in any way, not by sound or gesture – he’s impassive. So Giuliana looks back to me and motions toward her son with a nod of her head, her eyes still rimmed red.

 

I take the hint and, taking a few steps toward Marco, I place a gentle hand on his back. His hand is still clutching at Angelo’s bed sheets.

 

“Come on,” I tell him softly.

 

It takes a moment, but he nods and turns, eyes closed. I have to lead him out of the hospital room, shooting one last glance over my shoulder at Giuliana before closing the door. She smiles weakly.

 

The last thing I see before the door closes is Dr. Smith pulling the chair back out and taking a seat, clipboard firm in his hand. In the other, he clicks the end of a pen.

 

“Uh, let’s… let’s go get some fresh air,” I murmur, my hand never leaving his back. A few nurses we pass shoot us a sympathetic look, but it only makes my stomach hurt. Once we reach the elevators, I add, “I think it will help.”

 

“O-Okay,” he whispers, then presses his lips shut tightly like it causes him physical pain to speak.

 

I hit the elevator button once, then wait. I hit it again. And again. I probably hit it ten times in total, each time getting more frustrated than the last because this hospital smell is nauseating and I’m getting claustrophobic. I don’t know if the fresh air will help Marco, but I need cold air in my lungs, so I can only imagine he does, too. My neck feels like it’s burning up.

 

The elevator dings and the doors open.

 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Marco says shakily.

 

Fuck. I look both directions, make a quick decision, then usher us both onto the elevator and press the button for the ground floor.

 

“Just keep breathing, Marco,” I offer. “Come on, breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” My hands are at his shoulders now, gripping tightly like I’m holding the trigger on a grenade with no pin, like if I let go, he’s going to explode and I won’t be able to put him back together.

 

I lean close and demonstrate the breathing pattern, and with his eyes still shut, arms clinging around himself, he nods and tries to emulate it… but it’s shaky.

 

“I don’t think it’s working,” he says, and as the doors open on the main floor, I don’t waste any time rushing us out of there. I don’t look over at the pretentious coffee shop, or at the tree still situated at the threshold’s entrance, or at the two women whispering at the front desk. I focus on the front doors, and on Marco, and…

 

We make it outside just in time for Marco to double over in the nearest bush. A man carrying a bouquet of flowers wrinkles his nose in disgust, and with a hand on Marco’s convulsing back, I shoot a glare in his direction.

 

“Just… ah, let it out,” I offer, trying to soothe him. After a minute, he stops, but he’s still shaking and _God_ I have no fucking clue how to help anymore. I’m doing my best and it isn’t worth shit. “There,” I try again, “now, try and steady your breathing.”

 

I know he’s trying but, shit, my words aren’t working and his convulsing is getting worse.

 

“Come on, breathe.” I’m begging now, both hands on his shoulders as he starts to crouch down on the ground. “Everything’s fine, you’re fine. Stay with me, okay?”

 

But I know better. I saw this happen once before, the time he told me about Angelo’s condition, about what happened and why he went home so often. But it’s happening again and it’s worse; he’s regressing into himself, losing his senses and turning to a state of panic to cope with it.

 

This has nothing to do with being brave. As terrified as I am, I know this has nothing to do with trying to be strong; this is way past the point of rationalizing acceptable behavior.

 

 _It’s his brother,_ I keep thinking, _and, fuck, if this goes the way I know it will, Giuliana’s going to wind up making the decision without him. And when it happens… it’s going to ruin him._

 

I think of Marco’s smile, carefree and easy and innocent. When I think of never seeing it again…

 

My eyes start burning and I sniff loudly, looking away.

 

In the end, it’s Marco who has to calm himself down. It’s out of my hands. He finds himself on the ground, on his knees in the snow, and I end up sitting right beside him, face against his shoulder, not looking at anything but my mind consumed with the inevitability of everything.

 

Today feels like an end to something beautiful.

* * *

We ride back to Marco’s house with his mother, once she gets done speaking with the doctor. She doesn’t talk about what happened. Marco doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t offer… but I think we all know. It’s just a matter of when.

 

Marco rides up in the front with Giuliana, holding her hand the whole ride back. The radio plays soft music from the Christian station she has programmed, and intermittently, she lets go of the wheel to wipe her eyes.

 

I take my phone out of my pocket for the first time all morning and turn it on. With a flash, it lights up with a screen indicating three missed calls, a voicemail, and a handful of texts. They’re all from Reiner.

 

> **From: Reiner**
> 
> well?
> 
> **From: Reiner**
> 
> text me back bro
> 
> **From: Reiner**
> 
> if it’s bad you can just tell us at the dorms… marco sure is a strong kid. damn.

 

I don’t listen to the voicemail but I can only imagine it consists of something along the lines of the text messages. Quickly, I type back:

 

> **To: Reiner**
> 
> i’ll tell you later. fuck. this doesn’t look good.

 

Honestly, I wish I could tell him now – that way I might feel like I’m harboring all this weighted guilt on myself. But when I think of typing it all out, it feels so impersonal. Like this morning can be reduced to a couple of weak sentences that aren’t even grammatically correct. The monumentality of it all would be stripped… And Marco doesn’t deserve that. _Angelo_ doesn’t deserve that.

 

We all hop out of the car and make our way to the front door. Marco drags his feet inside and steadies himself against the wall, unlacing his boots and removing his jacket. I’ve got our bag from Bertholdt’s in my grip, and after I see Marco fall down onto the couch, I head down the hallway and put it back in his room.

 

Angelo’s side of the room is still untouched. I stare at his bed, with the little bear propped up on the flannel pillowcase and the baseball bat leaning against the bedpost.

 

That dull aching that I’ve been subsiding in my chest starts to crack, filtering a raw, real pain from my shoulders to my feet. I can feel my face crumple, and before I can stop myself, my wrists are pressed to my eyes and, no, there’s no way in hell I can think about feeling even a fraction of what Marco is. I don’t have the right. I never knew the kid.

 

But Angelo is smiling in that picture on Marco’s night stand, and there’s no sunlight anymore.

 

 _You’re pathetic._ I can hear the words bouncing off the inside of my skull, reverberating and encompassing everything until I manage to finally put myself together and make it look like I didn’t just lose it, because I don’t deserve to.

 

I pinch the thin skin on my knuckles. _Think about something real. Think about a different kind of pain._ It works, and I walk out of Marco’s room and back down the darkened hall.

 

I start to pass Giuliana, who heads toward the door of her bedroom, and as she does her footsteps slow. Mine do, too.

 

When she stops, she looks at me pointedly, as though trying to find the words to say what she means, so I wait.

 

“I’m sorry Jean,” she says finally, voice raspy and thin. “You… um, you didn’t need to see that. I should have taken you home before… I’m just… I’m very sad that you had to see our family like that.”

 

“No,” I start, holding up a hand, “you… ah, your reaction. Your feelings.” I struggle to find the words too, but I’m even worse than she is. Finally, I manage weakly, “They’re valid.”

 

Almost instantly, I realize I’ve said something wrong. Her eyebrows knit together and her eyes start to glaze over, and with one nod, she brushes past me and into her room, closing the door with a light click. I hate this.

 

I head out into the living room and plop hesitantly down on the floor beside the couch. When I look at Marco, he’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize I’m there until a minute later. His eyes soften when he sees me.

 

“Jean,” he says, like he’s trying to find me in the dark. He says my name like he’s drowning, and I’m supposed to keep him afloat.

 

“Hey,” I breathe, leaning toward him, catching his hand in mine. Even though I feel pitiful, I try to smile. “Do you, uh, need anything? A glass of water, or something to eat, or like, a blanket or–”

 

His movement cuts me off, slow as it is. He starts to sit upright, propping himself up on his elbow, and at once, he bends his neck downward and meets my lips with his. I just sit there, waiting for him to take the lead as his lips part once, then twice, and suddenly, it’s as though we can’t stop ourselves. My hands grip at the cloth of his shirt while one of his cups the back of my neck.

 

And it doesn’t take long for this need to turn into more than a need. I can tell when the switch happens; the instant his lips falter, it’s over. Soon I can taste his tears on my tongue, transcending from his skin to mine before he can warn me.

 

“Marco,” I whisper sadly, and he hiccups in response.

 

So I do the only thing I know how to do: I hold him. His arms tighten around me and my collar dampens. We’ve done this before, but not in the same way. It’s like I’m trying to stop him from falling off the edge of a cliff and my fucking butterfingers are letting him slip, and the tighter I try to hold him, the more violently his shoulders start to shake.

 

We make our way to the bedroom. As soon as we walk in the door, he looks at Angelo’s side and presses a hand to his swollen eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry this much. Hell, I don’t think I’ve seen _anyone_ cry this much.

 

From his dresser, I pull out a pair of pajamas and set them in Marco’s hands. He slowly starts to undress, making sure his back is facing his brother’s bed.

 

I change quickly and throw the covers back. The last time we slept in this bed, everything was different. The room was rose-colored and my mind was filled with images of him. In a strange way, he was able to block out all the sadness with the feeling of his fingertips on my skin.

 

This time, we crawl in and Marco turns off the light. Unlike before, the darkness feels cold. The kind of cold you can’t fix with a thermostat.

 

I don’t fall asleep for a long time. I try to focus on his breathing, waiting for it to steady, and I know that at least now, he isn’t hurting.

 

It’s not codependency, it’s wanting him to feel complete. And when the time comes, when his mother finally gives news of an official time limit, there’s no way of knowing if he will ever feel complete again.

 

The last thing I remember thinking before sleep takes over is a prayer. To God, or whoever is up there listening – I hope there’s someone.

 

I pray they find some way to fix him, because I’ve tried, and I’m still trying…

 

And I don’t think I can.

* * *

 

Two days later, we show up at the dorms. Reiner and Bertholdt aren’t there, but their stuff is. There’s a PS4 on the table by the TV and a shit ton of food restocked on their pantry shelves, serving as not only a testament to the fact that they got back before us but also that we did not fully prepare for our own return. We’re going to be hungry later.

 

I sense a pizza in our future.

 

Marco brings his bags in and drops them on the floor outside our room, then leans up against the wall.

 

“I feel nostalgic,” is all he says.

 

I nod, because I feel like it’s good and bad, both at the same time. “Me too.”

 

He shrugs off his coat and I do the same. We put our shoes at the door, and Marco also picks up a stray pair of printed Vans from underneath the coffee table that probably belong to that savage Reiner who always forgets to pick up after himself. I mean, I’m bad too, but this guy is on even playing ground.

 

“Do you think,” Marco sighs, “that like, we’ll get a whole bunch of snow tomorrow and we won’t have to go to class? And like, they never plow the streets or sidewalks so we never have to get out of bed for this whole semester?”

 

I open my mouth to say something, probably a joke – but nothing comes out, as though the words died in the back of my throat. I know he’s trying, but it doesn’t hurt any less this way than it did when his cheeks were stained with tears. It’s just more hidden now, is all.

 

And all of this aching in my chest is making me lethargic.

 

“Um,” I say after contemplating for a second, “I think I’m going to go get a coffee… do you want to come?”

 

He takes a seat on the couch and shakes his head. “Nah. I think I just want to sit here for a while… if that’s okay.”

 

“Whatever you want,” I tell him, and I quickly cross the room to place a kiss in his hair. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

 

He waves as I pull my shoes back on quickly and head out the door. It feels normal at first – heading down the hall, waving a little as I pass by familiar faces who live on our floor. But it’s not until I reach the first floor and pass Christa sitting at the front desk that I realize…

 

This is the first time I haven’t been with Marco in weeks. We spent all break together, the whole time either tiptoeing around one another’s feelings or holding hands while we figured out how the hell to manage them. And it’s not bad to spend time alone – I know this. It’s logical. But my heart feels like it’s still back upstairs in the dorm with Marco, and I feel like punching myself in the face because I’m the biggest loser to ever walk the earth. Like, really. An actual moron who didn’t know the first thing about falling in love with someone until that asshole with the freckles showed up in September.

 

I walk outside, quickly through the snow and to the Cultural Center up the road where the nearest Starbucks is located. I scuff my boots on the interior carpeted walkway, looking around for a familiar face. I don’t see anyone, and it’s almost a relief. I don’t know if I have the capacity to speak to anyone today.

 

Up at the counter, I order a large cappuccino from the thin, brown-haired girl behind the counter and take a seat at one of the empty tables near the big bay windows. It’s too hot to sip at first, so I just sit there and stare out at the whiteness outside. Down the street, there’s a snowball fight just beginning. I can almost hear their aggressive laughter from inside. It makes me want to run back to the dorm and drag Marco outside, because I feel like it will cheer him up.

 

 _Maybe not today,_ I think. _But soon._

 

After a few minutes of people-watching, I pull my phone out and open half the apps without actually using any of them. I check Facebook, not that I care what half of these people have to say – although I do find it interesting that Sasha and Connie both have changed their relationship statuses. Reiner’s changed his picture to a drunken snapshot, probably taken the night of Sasha’s party. His face looks as red as a baboon’s butt and his lips are pursed in traditional duck-face formation. Fuckin’ stupid party animal loser.

 

But when I finally get off Facebook and unintentionally scroll through my list of contacts, my thumb hesitates as the name pops up onto the screen.

 

_Klaudia Steinweg._

 

I stare at the name for a solid five minutes, and I’m not entirely sure why until I press the ‘call’ button and hold the phone to my ear. The dial tone makes my stomach churn.

 

 _I don’t know why I’m doing this,_ I think with a mix of exasperation and desperation – because even though I’m not entirely sure of my actions, I just know that there’s nothing I want more than for her to pick up the phone.

 

Suddenly, the dial tone stops. _Voicemail,_ I roll my eyes, starting to pull the phone away from my ear to hang up. But it’s just as I’m about to hit the ‘call end’ button that I hear it.

 

“Hello?” It’s the same soft, smiling voice I remember. “Jean?”

 

My heart stops.

 

“Uh,” I start, scrambling to bring it back up to my ear. My face is lighting up and the lady at the Starbucks counter is giving me a strange look, but I don’t even care. “Klaudia, yeah. It’s me.”

 

“Oh my gosh,” she laughs, “how the hell are you?”

 

I laugh right back because I can’t hold it in any longer. “I’m fine, uh, pretty okay for the most part. And you?”

 

“Y’know. Same old, same old. Work and play don’t exactly even themselves out the way they used to, right?”

 

I smile, because I haven’t spoken to my sister in such a long time that this cellular reunion is as close as it’s going to get for me – so I have to really treasure it. We don’t talk as often as we should. I wish I had the guts to call her more, anyway, and I know she’s busy with life overseas. But it’s just nice, I think, to remember I have a sister somewhere out there in the world and that, no matter how much time passes between phone calls, we are never going to change.

 

“So, uh, why were you calling, exactly?” she asks abruptly, her tone softening at the end.

 

It’s like she knows.

 

An image of Marco flashes in my mind, and for a minute, I contemplate telling her everything. Spilling the beans about the fact that, shit, I like guys, and that I somehow slipped into a relationship with my own goddamn roommate… Or telling her about the last three days. About his brother. About how I’ve never gone through something like this – I’ve never had to see someone die before, or grieve alongside the ones who are trying to get through it.

 

There are so many things I could tell her, and so many answers to this one simple question, but…

 

When I really start to think about how to answer her question, there’s only one reason that seems right.

 

“I think,” I murmur after a moment, “I just needed to hear the sound of your voice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hurt to write. Like, a lot. u_u I'm really sorry!! But... it was necessary. *sigh*
> 
> Again, thank you so much to everyone for being so kind and supportive about this fic. We seriously are so appreciative of you all and all that you guys do, from leaving comments to drawing freaking amazing fanart. My mind is in a perpetual state of boggled. <3


	17. put me back together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a moment to say how truly overwhelmed with love we feel. When Annie and I first started planning this story in November, we had no idea it would turn out to be so successful. What started as a silly AU turned into so much more for us. Hearing all of you say such nice things, and the messages we've received about how you think we've grown in our writing, it's literally the best thing that's happened for us.  
> Through writing this story, we have made so many wonderful friends whom we snapchat and skype with on a daily basis, people who we keep in touch with over tumblr messages, people we text and send letters and mail packages to and friends who we will meet in person at conventions and over the summer. 
> 
> I just want to say, thank you all so much. This story has really turned into a big part of our lives, and because you guys were so kind to us, we've really grown a lot. <3
> 
> Never, ever feel shy to say hi! We love making new friends, and we love hearing from you all!

The dorm is silent and empty.

 

I feel empty.

 

I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling, and I try my best not to think about anything. If I focus hard enough, everything in my peripheral vision seems to fade to black, and it’s easier to think about that than anything else. _Deep breaths,_ I tell myself, _deep breaths._

 

My eyes close, and I see Angelo.

 

It’s too much, it’s too much. I have to sit up and I bring my hands up to cover my face, because my tears are threatening to spill over again and I’m already too raw to handle more. It’s too cruel, too wrong, too horrible to imagine that he could… I can’t.

 

Frustrated and with fresh tears creating new streaks down my cheeks, I grab at my hair. I’m powerless to help anyone. I can’t help Angelo and I can’t help my mom. Thinking about Mom makes my stomach turn to knots, because she’s facing this all alone and I know she’s probably at the hospital right now, holding his hand and crying. And I can’t do a damn thing.

 

I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to hold myself together as a strangled sound escapes from my lips. My body is shaking, so I grip at my skin through the thin fabric of my t-shirt harder, trying desperately to keep myself together.

 

 _Deep breaths,_ my mind seems to remember, _deep breaths._

 

I suck in air like I’m drowning, and it hurts my chest. But it works. I take more than I need, and I let it out in a powerful gust. Slowly, I start to feel my body stop trembling, and only then do I reach up to dry my eyes.

 

 _Good,_ my mind tells me, _put yourself back together, Marco._

 

So I try.

* * *

By the time anyone gets back to the dorm, I’ve managed to pull myself together enough to unpack. All my clean clothes are put away neatly, my suitcase stowed under my bed again, and even the desk is organized. I’m laying on my bed, on my side, staring at my phone when the door opens.

 

At first, I hear a lot of loud laughter, followed by the sound of a chair moving, then a loud curse. “ _Fuck_ that hurt!” Bertholdt’s voice hisses, which only adds to Reiner’s laughing.

 

Probably accidentally kicked a chair. Jean’s done it so many times that the sound is familiar to my ears, even if it’s Bertholdt’s cursing instead of Jean’s.

 

“Marco?”

 

I lift my head a little, seeing both of them standing in the small doorway to our part of the dorm. They shuffle in slowly, and Reiner comes up closer while Bertholdt stays toward the end of the bed.

 

“You okay, man?” Reiner asks, his eyes soft.

 

“I’m okay,” I tell him, but we both know it’s a lie.

 

Crying is embarrassing. I hate doing it when people are around, but I can’t imagine losing it in front of these two. Crying in front of Jean is hard enough, but doing it in front of anyone else would be worse.

 

“We’re here for you,” Bertholdt offers, his voice quiet. His green eyes look sad, and he offers a small smile of encouragement.

 

“Yeah,” Reiner adds, “whether you need to get drunk off your ass or watch a sad movie. We’ve got your back, buddy.”

 

I laugh breathlessly now, nodding my head against the pillow. “Thanks, you guys,” I tell them. “That means a lot to me.”

 

Reiner reaches over to give me a pat on the shoulder, squeezing slightly in a comforting manner, before they both leave to give me some time. I lay curled on my side for a while, my arms wrapped around myself, and just stare off in the distance. I think about a time when things were happier – like last summer before the accident, when Angelo and I went camping in our backyard, or when Jean kissed me for the first time sober.

 

All of my happiest memories only include one of them. It’s unfair, because I know Angelo would love Jean if he met him. This thought makes my chest feel tight again.

 

It’s late afternoon when Jean finally returns. Reiner and Bertholdt are watching a new episode of Too Cute on Netflix, cuddling under the blanket there that – thankfully – was washed before we left for break. He talks to them in a low voice before he makes his way to our part of the dorm, stopping when his eyes see me still laying in bed.

 

He frowns, unzipping his coat and shrugging it off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor. Then, he climbs up and lays down next to me, wrapping his arms around me so I don’t have to hold myself together anymore. His fingers are cold from the winter wind outside, but it feels good when he presses them against my back and pulls me close.

 

I don’t cry when he holds me this time. I feel too empty to cry now, so instead, I tuck myself under his chin and take in his scent mixed with the smell of snow and cold, and I close my eyes. His fingers trail up and down my back, and he leans down to kiss the top of my head once.

 

“Are you hungry?” Jean whispers to me, pulling his head back so he can look at me. In response, my stomach growls because this is the first time all day I’ve even thought about food. I haven’t eaten anything since we left my house this morning, and even then, I’d only managed to eat a slice of toast. “Want me to order a pizza or something?”

 

“We could pick one up,” I reply, uncurling myself from him. All of the places where his fingers had been feel cold now and I shiver. “I think taking a walk sounds nice. And we still need to pick up our textbooks from the bookstore, and I need my work schedule…”

 

“Marco…” Jean bites his lip slightly before continuing. “If you want to take some time off work, that might make it easier.”

 

I smile slightly, because my hollow chest still flutters when I remember how much he cares. It’s like he’s become the tape that’s keeping me from completely falling apart.

 

“I think I want to work. It will be a good distraction.”

 

Jean nods. “Okay, but if it feels like too much, you’re allowed to say so.”

 

“Okay, deal,” I tell him. “If I feel overwhelmed, I’ll take a step back.”

 

Jean looks me square in the eye, as if he can read all the thousands of thoughts of overdue hospital bills piling up, Mom footing the expenses alone, and he sighs. Slowly, he raises his pinky.

 

“Marco, seriously,” he says, “promise me you’ll know your limit.”

 

I link my pinky with his and say, “I promise, Jean.”

 

We untangle from each other and climb down from my bed, getting suited up for the cold winter outside. I’m still crossing my fingers for a snow day, because the last thing I want to do is attend classes tomorrow when I feel like the smallest thing could set me off.

 

“Where are you two headed?” Reiner asks as we walk by them to put our boots on. “You’re going to miss the new episode of _Glee!_ ”

 

“Reiner,” Jean says, his voice level, “we don’t watch that show.”

 

“Yeah, but you could start watching it today,” Reiner replies with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I mean, you know, if you wanted. You could. It could be kind of cool.”

 

“He’s excited because they’re singing a song from _Wicked_ tonight,” Bertholdt tells us, which makes Jean laugh.

 

“Of course,” he says. “No, we’re going to grab our textbooks and get a pizza. You guys want us to bring you back anything? We can share the pizza four ways.”

 

“Nah, pizza sounds great, though,” Reiner says, pulling out his wallet. He hands Jean a ten dollar bill for his and Bertholdt’s half of the pay, and as we’re walking out the door, he calls to us to remember to get marinara sauce this time.

 

We pass Christa at the front desk, who gives us both friendly smiles and waves. Then, we head into the cold snow and start walking toward the front end of campus to the food court. As we walk, the snow under our boots crunches loudly and our breathing is visual through clouds of puff from between our lips.

 

The cold makes me feel better, somehow.

 

Jean and I don’t talk while we’re walking, but after a few minutes of the silence, he reaches down and grabs my hand, putting into his coat pocket with his. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, seeing a blush there as he walks closer so it’s less obvious to others around us that we’re holding hands.

 

Even if it’s not a total secret, we still like things the way they are. We just aren’t ready – especially now, I’m not ready to deal with that excitement from everyone – to tell everyone about us.

 

The walk seems short, but we’re both freezing when we finally let go of each other’s hand and walk inside. It smells like coffee more than anything, and it makes me feel even better. Something familiar to grasp, something to hold onto when everything else is different. It’s comforting, in a strange way.

 

“Let’s order the pizza, then pick up the books,” Jean says, leading us to the pizza place in the food court. “By the time we finish getting our books, the pizza should be ready.”

 

I nod in agreement with the plan and follow him. He orders the biggest size pizza with the garlic knots that Reiner seems to love so much, and he doesn’t forget the marinara this time. We pay and they tell us it will be ready in about fifteen minutes. We head over to the bookstore on the second level, showing our IDs to the lady behind the counter, and she gets all of our books out for us and scans them.

 

“You’re all set, darlings,” she tells us with a bright smile. “Have a wonderful semester!”

 

“Thank you,” I tell her as we pick up all the books in our arms.

 

This semester, I decided to get some of my general education requirements out of the way. Jean and I are taking Psychology and math together, and my last three classes are medical ones.

 

“I’m going to grab my work schedule real fast, okay?” Jean nods and sits at a table close to the pizza place, waiting for our food. I set my books down next to him and walk toward the coffee shop, waving at Armin who’s behind the counter.

 

“Hi, Marco!” he exclaims, reaching across the counter to give me a quick hug. It takes me by surprise a little, but I return it. “How was your break?”

 

It’s a loaded question. I think back to how it started, at Jean’s house where I struggled with my feelings for him becoming too overwhelming. My confession, finally, coming out and changing our relationship forever. Jean returning my feelings outside in the snow, kisses shared in secret in my bed. Until finally, the end of break, with the situation with Angelo…

 

“Not too bad,” I settle with, fixing an easy smile on my lips. “How about yours?”

 

“It was nice,” he replies. “Eren, Mikasa and I were just lazy the whole time. It was nice to relax, huh?”

 

I nod in agreement. Before the bad part at the end of the break happened, I’d done my fair share of relaxing. Most of it involved being under the blankets wrapped around Jean.

 

“Yeah, definitely,” I agree. “Hey, can I write down my schedule for this week really quick?”

 

“Oh, yeah!” Armin runs to the office around the corner and grabs it, along with pencil and a sticky note (Zoe really likes sticky notes, we’ve noticed. They are _everywhere_ ). I thank him and start writing it down, pleased that I work fairly easy hours around my new class schedule. “So are you taking anymore medical classes this semester?”

 

“A couple,” I reply, folding the sticky note and putting it in my pocket. “Medical Terminology II, Biology and labs, and a Physics class.”

 

“I’m taking Medical Terminology and Physics this semester, too!”

 

We’re in the same Physics class, but not the same time slot for Medical Terminology, but we still agree to study together like we did last semester. My phone buzzes with a text from Jean, announcing that the pizza is ready. I wave to Armin and return to the table where I’d left him to see a pizza with a bag on top balanced in his arms.

 

“Think you could grab the books?” he asks.

 

I pick up all of our books from the table and we head for the doors. “What? So I’m the macho boyfriend who carries your books for you?”

 

Jean snorted. “Let’s be real here, Bodt. If I was a chick, I would be a spoiled rich girl and yeah, I’m pretty sure you _would_ carry my books around for me.”

 

I smile, holding the door open for him, and follow him back into the cold. I feel a calming sensation from getting things back to normal. Talking and being around everyone helps me forget for a little while.

 

“What? So you don’t consider yourself a spoiled rich boy?” I mock, and he rolls his eyes at me, feigning hurt.

 

“I can’t believe you think so low of me,” he says with a shake of his head.

 

“You’re carrying the hot pizza while I’m carrying the books,” I point out. “Who’s hands do you think are warmer right now?”

 

Jean grins, looking up at me. I roll my eyes at him and nudge his shoulder with mine, which he responds to with a bump of my shoulder.

 

We walk quickly back to the dorms, the smell of pizza filling our senses and making our mouths water. I open the door to our dorm for him and then step inside after, shutting the door behind us. Jean sets the pizza down at the little table and we take off our boots and coats, leaving it all by the door.

 

“Yo!” Jean calls out to the other boyfriends. “Pizza time!”

 

Reiner and Bertholdt join us at the table, each of us grabbing a paper plate and grabbing a few slices of pizza. Reiner pats Jean on the back for remembering his marinara, dunking one of the garlic knots into it.

 

“You’re just in time to watch them sing _Defying Gravity_!” Reiner informs us excitedly, making his way back to the couch. Bertholdt sighs and follows, sitting down beside his boyfriend.

 

Jean and I exchange a look before we decide to just join them. Jean sits next to Reiner and I take to sitting on the arm of the couch so I don’t have to squish in. There’s an exchange on the show between a few characters and Reiner groans.

 

“Oh look, Bertl,” he says, his voice full of spite, “there’s your boyfriend.”

 

Jean and I watch Bertholdt’s cheeks turn slightly pink as he ignores his boyfriend beside him to watch the show. Reiner, however, keeps going.

 

“This guys _loves_ Blaine,” Reiner tells us with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “I don’t see why, though. I mean, look at this idiot. His hair has way too much grease in it and he looks so dumb. His bow ties are stupid.”

 

“He has the voice of an angel,” Bertholdt says quietly, shoving against Reiner’s shoulder. “Besides, I don’t judge you for your love affair with Kurt.”

 

The two continue to bicker until the song starts. I recognize it immediately from the hungover car ride back from Sasha’s party before break started. Reiner sighs, watching intently, and Bertholdt goes quiet to watch, too. I suppose it would be more emotional for us if we watched the show, but I don’t even know what characters they were bickering about.

 

Jean and I finish our pizza and leave the other two to cuddle and finish watching their show. We settle in our side of the dorm, putting all of our books on the desks under our beds. Even though it isn’t really late yet, we decide to get ready for bed. We change into pajamas and climb up into Jean’s bed; I lay down with my head on his pillow while he sits up right, drawing in his sketchbook.

 

I pull his comforter up to my nose, secretly inhaling his scent, and curling closer. I rest my head on his lap, watching as he works. His eyebrows pull together, and he bites his lip, his eyes looking almost angry as he stares at his paper, the pencil making scratching sounds and the occasional irritated erasing.

 

My eyes close, and I fall asleep with my head on his lap, to the sounds of his breathing and pencil moving across paper.

* * *

The first few weeks of January seem to pass by in a blur.

 

I find that I really love sharing classes with Jean. We sit next to each other in Psychology and our math class, take notes, and do all of our homework together in our dorm room at night. In class, Jean always doodles. His notes are covered in random sketches and most of them are of me. He doesn’t try to cover them anymore, either, which makes me blush. Sometimes he turns them into little comics that make me laugh, which earns us a hard look from our professor.

 

It’s easier with him around so much. The homework load is easier, too, because we each will do half and then share the answers that the other did.

 

Everything seems to be getting easier.

 

When we first returned to the dorm, I would hear Reiner and Bertholdt asking Jean if I was really okay. They would whisper, but I could still hear them. I felt sick for making them all worry so much, mostly because there wasn’t anything they could do. I didn’t want to drag everyone down with me.

 

So I tried harder to pull myself together. It’s easier now to pretend like I’m back to normal, like somehow, I can lie to myself sometimes, too. I don’t feel as much now, even when I’m talking to Mom over the phone. Mostly I just feel numb, like I’m pulled back and watching what’s happening. I feel detached from myself.

 

I talk to Mom almost every day now. She fills me in on updates, which are usually just the talk of doctors and nurses talking to her about the possibility of letting Angelo go. She’s the strong one, now. All of my strength is gone and I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.

 

We try to come to terms with our reality. I can reason all day long that I can’t make the decision that my little brother would want death over this, but I can see Doctor Smith’s point now that I’ve had time to get my head straight. Dragging it out and making Angelo live like this isn’t fair, either. Mom sees it, too.

 

I’m just not ready to let go. Not yet.

 

On January 9th, Mom calls me as I’m walking back to the dorms from closing the coffee shop with Sasha. She’d been chatting all night long about her break. Apparently, her and Connie are Facebook official, and she showed me picture after picture of them kissing at various different sceneries. I told her how happy I was for her, which only made her gush more. When Connie showed up half way through her shift, she gave him a kiss right on top of his bald head, which made him blush. It was nice to catch up with both of them.

 

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder so I can keep my hands in my pockets a little longer.

 

“How are you?” she asks. I immediately hear how strained her voice sounds, which causes my stomach to drop.

 

“Fine,” I respond, stopping outside of the dorm building. “What’s wrong?”

 

She lets out a sigh, the sound filling my ear. “I talked to Doctor Smith today,” she tells me softly, and now there’s knots in my stomach. “I just wanted to call you and make sure that you’re going to be okay. We agreed to set a date.”

 

 _No_.

 

I feel winded, like someone just punched my in the stomach. My chest is tight and I feel like I can’t breathe. My hand reaches up to take the phone, and I close my eyes tightly, knowing that I should be crying. But I’ve hurt for so long now that I don’t have any tears left.

 

“How long?” I choke out, swallowing against the lump in my throat, trying to breathe normally.

 

“About a month,” she says, and I hear the crack in her voice. I know she’s crying now, because she’s sniffling every few seconds. “I’m so sorry, Marco. But I think that this is for the best.”

 

It’s set in stone. On February 5th, my little brother will be gone. For the next week and a half, this thought consumes me. When I’m in class, I can’t focus because I shouldn’t even _be_ here, I should be with him and Mom. I should be spending as much time as I can with him before he’s gone. When I’m at work, I should be holding his hand and telling him all about college and what it’s like to fall in love with your best friend. When I’m taking orders for rude people, I should be fighting for Angelo.

 

I’m helpless. I’m pathetic. I’m worthless.

 

I can’t do a damn thing for Angelo now, and coping with that is impossible.

 

Everyone worries again, and it makes me feel worse. Reiner and Bertholdt offer to let me pick what we watch on Netflix, if it means I’ll climb down from my bed. Reiner tries making me sweets to cheer me up, because he says that’s what he always did for his sister back home. Bertholdt sits with me and offers words that should hold comfort, but I’m too far gone for them to work.

 

Jean tries the hardest. He tells Reiner and Bertholdt to spend the night at Bertholdt’s dorm, so I can be alone for a little while. When they leave, he just lays with me in my bed and holds me. No words, no stupid questions asking if I’m okay. He just holds me, and he lets me hold him back, even if I’m holding on too tight.

 

Jean doesn’t sugarcoat things. He doesn’t give me empty promises that say that everything will work out and that Angelo will wake up before that date. He doesn’t say anything. It’s easier when he’s quiet, because he just focuses on holding me tighter and closer, as if he’s trying his best to protect me from the rest of the world.

 

Slowly, I start learning how to feel again. My hollow chest aches, my stomach is in knots, and I cry into Jean’s shoulder until I’m too tired to keep my eyes open.

 

“Sleep, Marco,” Jean whispers to me, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my shoulder.

 

“Don’t go, okay?” I beg, burying my face into the crook of his neck, my arms holding him tighter to me.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Marco.”

 

His hands are flat against my back, and one slides up into my hair. I fall asleep with his fingers running through my hair, while his other hand rubs soothing circles into my back.

* * *

 

 Trost gets a massive amount of snow over the weekend.

 

I spend the weekend laying around with Jean. He does homework, and coaxes me to work on mine, too, so I don’t fall behind in my classes. When I feel like that’s too much, he settles for sketching me while I’m laying down. He doesn’t talk much, and I’m kind of glad, because I don’t have much to say, anyway.

 

On Monday, they give us a snow day and cancel classes for the day. Reiner wakes us up before our alarms go off to tell us, so we can sleep later. Jean and I are laying in a heap in his bed, but Reiner doesn’t notice since we piled my pillows under the blanket on my bed to look like I’m over there.

 

Reiner leaves to return to his bed, yawning loudly as he goes, and Jean rolls over to look at me.

 

“I think I’m going to do laundry today,” I say, my voice thick with sleep. It’s been longer than a week since my last laundry day, I note, as my eyes drift over Jean’s shoulder to my hamper of dirty clothes looking embarrassingly full. “Want me to gather yours and do it for you, too?”

 

“I can come with you,” Jean offers, yawning as he buries his face into his pillow.

 

“You can sleep longer, if you want,” I tell him, admiring his profile as his eyes close and he nods a little. “I’m going to shower first, then.”

 

“Noooooooooo,” Jean mumbles in cute and sleepy voice as I move to the ladder. He reaches for me, but I smile slightly and just offer him a small peck on his lips before climbing down. A minute later, as I gather my shower things into my arms, I hear him snoring again.

 

I let the hot water rush over my skin in the shower, leaning one arm against the wall to prop myself up. With robotic movements, I’ve been trying to get myself through the past few weeks. _Come on, Marco,_ my mind tries again weakly, _put yourself back together._

 

But I can’t just put myself back together. Picking up the pieces is hard when there are thousands; tape isn’t enough to mend this wound. As much as I want to be better, to stop feeling this way, I know enough about depression to know that I can’t just tell myself to stop being sad. It doesn’t work that way.

 

I lift my head and let the water rush over my face. My chest is hollow and I feel numb, no matter how hot I have the water.

 

I finish showering and dress in comfortable pajamas to lounge in all day. I wash my face and brush my teeth, even pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs that have strayed to the middle. I look like myself again, for the first time in days.

 

As I head back to get my laundry stuff together, I grab a packet of strawberry pop tarts to munch on for breakfast. I take one pastry and leave the other for Jean, per usual, as I grab my laundry detergent and fabric softener and dryer sheets, placing them on top of my hamper to carry to the laundry room with me.

 

“You save one of those for me?” Jean’s raspy and sleepy voice asks.

 

I glance up, seeing him leaning over to look down at me, noticing the pop tart in my mouth. I offer him the other one in the packet, and he smiles at me, accepting it before climbing down from his bed.

 

Jean grabs his hamper, too, and we head to the elevators. As we ride the elevator down, I glance over to find Jean staring at me warily a few times.

 

“What?” I finally ask as the doors slide open and we step out.

 

“You seem… more like yourself today,” he says slowly, biting his lip as if this will jinx it.

 

“I’m trying,” I offer in a meek tone of voice. “I don’t know how to really cope with this, so I don’t know how to stop feeling this way. But I just… I don’t….”

 

“Marco,” Jean says my name in a deep voice that brings goosebumps up on my arms, “whatever happens, I’m here for you, too. If it’s too much, then let me be there to help steady you.”

 

Before I know how to respond to his words, I lean forward and press my lips to his. He tastes like strawberry pop tarts and sprinkles; I move closer as his hands find the collar of my shirt, drawing me in. It’s been days since we’ve been like this, and I find that my body is craving his touch.

 

Jean pulls away and I chase after his lips, my eyes half-open. He laughs nervously under his breath, which makes me look up at him. His cheeks are pink with a fresh blush, and he bites his bottom lip.

 

“We’ll get caught down here, you know,” he tells me in a whisper.

 

I steal one more quick kiss before I move to the washing machines. I start all three of them, adding detergent and fabric softener to the warm water. Jean sits on the bench watching me as I start to load all three of them up with our clothes – one for mine, one for his, and one for lights which is a mix of both of ours.

 

As I close the lid to my machine and move to load up Jean’s with his clothes, I can’t help but smile. Just a month ago, I was in this same room, doing this same thing and fantasizing about Jean being my boyfriend, not just my friend.

 

And here I am, doing my _boyfriend’s_ laundry.

 

I load the final machine with all of our white and light colored clothes, and shut the lid. Taking the seat next to him on the bench to wait for the clothes to finish washing, I turn to look at Jean. He’s picking at a hangnail, focusing all of his attention to his hands, so I take a little longer to stare.

 

His pointed nose and sharp jaw line, his hair still a mess on top of his head from sleeping on it and it’s got a cowlick in it again. Looking at him now, I know I’ve memorized every detail about him. While that used to be something that scared me, now it just makes my heart feel lighter.

 

“So do you work tonight?” Jean asks, letting his hand drop to his leg as he looks over at me.

 

“No,” I reply, reaching forward and taking his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. He smiles at me, pulling me closer to him and I rest my head on his shoulder.

 

“I think Reiner and Bertl are going out tonight,” Jean tells me quietly, his head resting against the top of mine. “That means we get the TV to ourselves.”

 

“Movie night sounds nice,” I mumble, closing my eyes.

 

“We could make hot cocoa, watch movies, and order pizza.”

 

“Hot marcocoa,” I tell him.

 

“What?”

 

“Angelo used to call it hot marcocoa,” I explain, laughing a little bit, as an image of Angelo as a toddler screeching hot marcocoa to Mom in the winter comes to mind. “I guess it just stuck because I still call it that sometimes.”

 

Jean squeezes my hand in his softly. “Let’s have hot marcocoa, then,” he says, and I laugh again, because hearing it in Jean’s voice is perfect. He laughs a little, too, nuzzling his nose into my still damp hair.

 

We sit like that for a while, letting our clothes wash. Jean moves everything to the dryer when it finishes before returning to sit beside me so I can rest my head on his shoulder again. His phone buzzes with a text from Reiner that says that they’ll be out until tomorrow.

 

Another buzz from his phone.

 

**From: Reiner**

**Don’t have too much fun when I’m away (;**

 

Jean shows me, and we both laugh a little. He types a sarcastic reply and tucks his phone back into his pocket, slouching back against the wall. I curl in closer to him, wishing we were back at the dorm in his bed.

 

When our clothes finish, we load our hampers and drag everything back up to our dorm. It’s empty, which is a nice change, and quiet. I hang all my clothes up neatly, putting my laundry stuff away in my wardrobe. Jean leaves his in his hamper and heads to the bathroom to take a shower.

 

“Such a slob,” I mumble to myself as I start to hang his clothes up for him. Once it’s all put away, I sit down on the couch and turn the TV on, deciding to see what’s on Netflix that we could watch.

 

Jean steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and his toothbrush in his mouth. My eyes widen and I try to focus my attention on Netflix, but slowly, they wander back to him as he opens his hamper.

 

“I hung your clothes up for you,” I squeak out. He opens the wardrobe and then looks over at me, taking the toothbrush out of his mouth.

 

“Thanks,” he tells me, “you didn’t have to, you know.”

 

“I know, I just….” I trail off, my eyes taking in the sight of him before a blush colors my cheeks and I turn around again. “I just, uh, felt like it. Sorry.”

 

“S’okay,” he tells me with a slight laugh. “Thank you, Marco.”

 

He comes around to sit next to me on the couch, now dressed in sweatpants and a black t-shirt. We go through the movie selection before deciding on Carrie, since Jean took control. I whine, but he shushes me and promises that it’s not even that scary out of the others he could have picked.

 

“I’ve seen it before,” I tell him with a sigh, “and it _did_ scare me a little.”

 

“But you’ve seen it before, so it won’t scare you this time,” he argues as he presses play. “Too late, already playing. You can pick the next one, if you want.”

 

I scoff, which makes him smile cutely at me, and I can’t really be mad at him. “I’m going to make you watch something really dumb, then. Like something that will make you cry.”

 

Jean raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, right,” he says. “My sister made me watch The Notebook and I didn’t shed a single tear. Good luck.”

 

As the beginning credits begin to play, Jean moves closer to me to wrap the blanket around us. He sniffs it once, then deciding that it’s safe, cuddles up next to me with it around him.

 

I find it difficult to focus on the movie. Under the blanket, Jean’s fingers are on my thigh, and his scent is overpowering because he’s so close. I bite my bottom lip, trying to return my gaze to the movie screen instead of looking down at Jean.

 

Fifteen minutes into the movie, Jean adjusts his position, catching my gaze. I notice a slight blush on his face and squint at him suspiciously. He coughs into his fist, sitting up straight instead of leaning into my chest. I watch his adams apple bob slightly as he swallows nervously.

 

“Jean,” I whisper, and our eyes meet.

 

Slowly, I lean toward him and he tilts his face up to meet me half way. We kiss, softly at first, testing the waters. After just a few moments, the movie is forgotten as his hands grab a fist full of my shirt and he pulls me closer to him. My arms wrap around his thin body instinctively, my hands flat against his lower back as I press his chest against mine.

 

I slowly lean back, allowing Jean to take control as he hovers over me. The blanket around us tangles in our legs, holding us close like a rope tied to each of us. My breathing hitches, and a soft sigh spills from between my lips; Jean catches it easily, taking advantage of my parted lips to slide his tongue into my mouth.

 

We kiss hungrily, our mouths open and panting against one another. Jean props himself up with his hands on either side of my head while mine run through his still wet hair and down his back, which earns a low groan from him. The sound causes a pool of heat to start in my lower stomach, and my hips roll upward uncontrollably.

 

Jean pulls away to trail wet, hot kisses down my jawbone and to my neck. He moves one leg between mine, giving me some much needed friction, as well as for himself. I tilt my head back, giving him better access as he marks my skin with his kisses.

 

He shifts as he moves up to kiss me again. Eagerly, I move to him too quickly, and our mouths smash against each other painfully, our teeth clanking together.

 

“Fuck!” Jean hisses, reaching up to touch his mouth gingerly.

 

I move a hand to cover mine too, making sure my front teeth aren’t loose. “Ow,” I agree, rubbing my swollen lips. “Sorry, Jean.”

 

“It’s okay,” he says with a slight laugh, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “Guess we, uh, were getting a little carried away.”

 

“Y-yeah,” I reply as he slowly moves from over top of me and I sit up. Our eyes meet again, and we both blush harder; Jean nervously coughs into his fist. “M-maybe… not today.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean says, nodding his head.

 

We both turn back to the movie, just in time to watch the prom scene. It’s a few minutes into it that they dump the blood on Carrie, splattering all over her date and covering her dress. I make a face, watching the scene continue in slow motion.

 

“That’s so gross,” I say, looking over to see Jean’s expression.

 

“Well,” he says, “there goes my boner.”

 

I snort, unable to help the small laugh that comes out. He grins at me and slowly gets up from the couch, turning the movie off and handing me the remote that, apparently, fell on the floor during our make out session.

 

“Here, pick something good out,” he tells me. “I’ll make us some hot marcocoa.”

 

He heads around the corner and I smile to myself softly before I start looking through the movie selection again. I decide to put on _Listen to Your Heart_ , one of the saddest movies that I ever watched with Mom. When Jean returns, handing me a steaming mug, I press play. He nestles next to me, the blanket around both of us again, our shoulders and legs touching.

 

As we sip our hot chocolate, I slip my hand into his, lacing our fingers together. A good half hour into the movie, we set our empty mugs on the floor, and Jean leans back against the arm of the couch with his arm up. I move in, cuddling close to him and he wraps his other arm around my shoulders, our fingers still intertwined together.

 

We spend the whole day on that couch, taking turns picking movies. For the first time in weeks, I let myself stop thinking and just relax, letting Jean hold me together and kiss away whatever hurt he can.

 

As my eyes stray from the screen to our locked hands and how perfectly they fit together, I silently thank Jean. I squeeze his hand to try and convey how much I appreciate him and his patience with me. He glances down at me and smiles, squeezing my hand back softly.

 

That’s the best thing about falling in love with your best friend. He’s there to steady you, always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so embarrassed omg c:


	18. blinded (when i see you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked so friggin hard on this chapter holy balls!! Hope you guys like it - I think you will! *wink wonk*

Thursday is House Hunters night, and I actually couldn’t give less of a fuck about what’s happening to the couple on TV. There are three awesome apartments being showcased that apparently don’t do it for the man and wife looking for a home, and Reiner’s getting angry because _the second house is obviously perfect for them, but they’ll probably just end up choosing the third one because they’re stupid as hell._

 

Reiner’s watching intensely, a can of foaming beer open in his big meaty hand. Bertholdt is up on the couch, twirling a finger in the blonde’s hair with an unintentional smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Marco has his A+P homework open in his lap, all the while his brows knit together in agitation because the volume is up way too loud for him to be able to concentrate. It isn’t something he has to say, I can just tell.

 

My sketchbook is open in my own lap and I’m doodling Marco’s profile, focusing on the freckles dotting all along his cheeks, the shadow his eyelashes cast down the ridge of his round nose. The past thirty pages all look the same; just different angles of the same face. Sometimes it’s his hands. Sometimes it’s his jawline, and the way it curves downward like a slope, meeting his neck more smooth than jagged. All of the places where my fingertips have traced, they blur my sketchbook with hues of charcoal gray like a visual representation of that swirling gay vortex I’ve been trapped in for the past six months. It’s a lot different from the mecha and giant people monsters I drew before I met him, but when I look at them now, I can see the way my heart seeps into the pictures – because I don’t want to get him wrong. Because I care way too much.

 

God, I’m a fucking sap.

 

In the end, the couple chooses the first house and Reiner’s pissed. Marco and Bertholdt laugh at his expense, and as the promise of another episode follows the end credits, Marco shoots me a look. I already know.

 

I slam my sketchbook shut and tuck it beside the chair, standing as I do.

 

“I’m going to go get a snack,” I say, my voice cutting through the warmth of the room. “Or, something,” I add.

 

“Can I come?” Marco asks lightly. His eyes meet mine again and I can see he already knows the answer.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I grin, “sure. You guys want anything?” I say it in a way that doesn’t even leave them an option to tag along, because really, us leaving for snacks is just an excuse to hang out together alone.

 

Reiner tips his beer can up at me and, when his words don’t come for just a moment too long, he shakes his head. Drunken bara goon.

 

“We’re fine,” Bertholdt replies tiredly. “We’ll probably head to bed soon anyway.”

 

“Alright,” I chirp, “c’mon, Marco.” I’m already pulling my shoes on before he stands and my hand is on the doorknob, twisting it open as soon as he crosses the room. “You’re slow,” I tell him jokingly.

 

“You’re just too eager,” he murmurs, and when he does, I freak and look to our roommates to check they haven’t heard. They don’t break their gazes from the television. It takes a moment, but once Marco gets his shoes on and follows me out the door, I let out that nervous breath.

 

“How freaking obvious can you get?” I ask incredulously as we walk down the hall.

 

Marco grins. “They’re going to find out sooner or later,” is all he says, though I swear I hear him mutter “eager beaver” under his breath.

 

We head down the steps at the end of the hall and make our way across the darkened campus, following the trail of streetlights glowing tall all along the sidewalks.

 

Marco coughs once into his fist before casually reaching over to take my hand. I tense at first, but soon comes that calming sensation that I only associate with the feeling of our hands twined together; we walk for a ways, peaceful in the quiet darkness that is surprisingly solitary, save for the few stray students just getting back from night classes in the Jason C. Black building.

 

“Mom was asking about you,” he says suddenly, just as we reach the end of the street and wait for the ‘walk’ light to flash. “When she called the other day, she wanted to know how you were.”

 

I brighten. “She did?”

 

“Mhm,” he hums, smiling a little. “Told you she liked you.”

 

“Your mom is too nice,” I laugh, remembering Giuliana and the way she acted toward me over break. Her sweetness was contagious, like just being around her would give me a toothache – though it wasn’t just that, it was the acceptance. At the thought of it, I try not to think about my own parents, and attempt to block the image of their reaction to our relationship out of my mind.

 

Marco kicks a rock into the street as the light changes and we continue walking. The air shifts; it’s cold, but it’s a different sort of chill when his shoulders fall forward a little and his hold on my hand loosens.

 

“She also, uh, wanted to know… if you wanted to come to the funeral next month.”

 

The glow of the 7-Eleven casts harsh shadows on his face as we approach the front doors. His expression is blank when I catch him out of the corner of my eye, his mouth a thin line and the dark reflecting where the light usually is in his gaze. It’s just an image, though. Marco’s gotten good at pretending, but not good enough.

 

“I’ll be there,” I say, gripping his hand a little tighter. “Yeah, of course I will.” Inside, I’m praying he doesn’t crack. I can usually tell when he’s about to, or right before his face crumples and he starts choking on sobs.

 

Tonight, though, he doesn’t. He just gives me another quick look and nods, eyebrows synching together a bit before letting go of my hand and opening up the store door.

 

Some old lady with a smoker’s cough greets us from behind the cash register and we each give an uncomfortable wave in response, making our way quickly to the opposite end of the store where all the snacks and shit are located. I tell Marco to grab whatever, and he goes for the gummy worms.

 

I snort. “Gummy worms? Wow. You really are twelve years old.”

 

He looks once at the Ho-Hos I start to pick up from the rack and rolls his eyes. “If I’m twelve, then you’re four.”

 

“I am four year,” I say in a baby voice, laughing as he shoves me. “Ow, no like when you hurt me, Macko.”

 

“You need to stop,” he says, half-serious and half-trying to keep it together so that we don’t cause a scene in the middle of the 7-Eleven. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that we’re in public.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I chuckle, opening the cooler and grabbing a bottle of Mr. Pibb, “alright, old man.”

 

“Also, I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before,” Marco says, shaking his head. He grabs a ginger ale out of the cooler for himself and shuts the door slowly. “I am _not_ an old man.”

 

I can’t stop the words from tumbling out: “Yeah, well you’re _my_ old man.”

 

It’s almost instant, the way the blush creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks a fervent hue of pink until its gradient reaches the tips of his ears.

 

“Y-You’re my old man, too,” he says, turning down another aisle. Obviously I’m a huge embarrassment. He can’t take me anywhere. Still, though, it’s little things like this that kind of remind me that Marco and I… well, we’re together. And it’s real. And it _still_ kind of blows my mind.

 

We mull over the remainder of the snack aisles before I take his stuff from him – to which he shies, but does not protest – and go to pay for them at the counter. He holds the door for me and we start heading back to the dorms, munching on gummy worms the whole way back.

 

“You get the orange ones,” Marco laughs, holding one out to me through the fog of his breath in the air.

 

“Fuck that!” I say, scrunching up my nose as I shove his hand away. “Those are the gross ones!”

 

“I know,” he giggles, sticking it back in the bag before pulling out a green and clear one and handing it to me instead. I take it from him, smiling a little at him and the way something as simple as gummy worms can cheer him up – even if it’s just for a little while.

 

 _I don’t think you even know how cute you’re being,_ I think, shaking my head. I want to tell him, but it’s too embarrassing. The words catch on my tongue and I swallow them back down, along with the chewed-up gummy worm.

 

Our feet trudge back through the slush and Marco takes my hand again. “I don’t want to go back to the dorms,” he says.

 

“Okay.”

 

He cheeses. “‘Okay’?” His voice is disbelieving, the word’s repetition almost mocking in the way he says it. “That was easy.”

 

“You really don’t have to do much convincing,” I shrug, taking another gummy worm from his bag and biting it in half. “I don’t want to sit through another episode of that damn House Hunters piece-of-shit television show.”

 

“Their taste in television is… a little questionable,” he agrees with a laugh. “Um, okay. Where do you want to go?”

 

I can’t help grinning a little, myself, because happy Marco is the best Marco, and when these seemingly carefree moods of his are few and far in between, I really have to make the most of them when they _do_ happen. “You’re the one who started it, so you decide,” I say finally, when I can’t think of a place after wracking my brain for somewhere we could go.

 

He shivers a little. Snow starts to trickle down from overhead, glittering in the glow of the streetlamps, and it dusts our heads in an iridescent white.

 

“Alright,” Marco says and he tugs my hand toward him, toward the street and across the way where a beaten pathway between the pair of buildings which faces our direction. “This way.”

 

I’ve never been this way. In fact, I didn’t even know there was anything past the dorms on this side of campus until we’re heading down a trail where trees climb toward the sky and exist just far enough apart to form a path.

 

“This looks like a stoner trail,” I mumble, “or, something. Where did you even find this place?”

 

“I didn’t.” Well, at least he’s honest. “Connie was telling us about it at work the other night.”

 

I snort. “Well if _Connie_ is the one that told you about it, chances are it probably _is_ a stoner trail.”

 

He starts to give me that look he sometimes does, the one like he’s about to tell me I’m being ridiculous or something I said was a little out-of-line, but I see the way his lips crack into a smile and he looks up and away. _You know I’m right,_ I think, fighting back laughter.

 

“It’s nice back here, at least,” I offer after a moment. My voice quiets, because everything around us is so still that I can’t bring myself to speak any louder… like I’ll disturb it. There’s snow hanging off of every tree trunk and there are a few sets of footprints, but nothing else. In the distance, the wind rattles through the branches like a low whistle; Marco looks upward, and the further we get from the street, the darker the shadows that dance across his face.

 

His eyes flit over to meet mine and his face softens.

 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

 

I jerk my gaze away at first, purely out of instinct because _goddammit, I’m the biggest loser of all time and he totally caught me staring,_ but in the thick of the trees, at least he can’t see how bad I’m blushing… so I say it anyway.

 

“Just you,” I manage, though my voice breaks.

 

He brings his free hand up to his face and runs it through the front of his hair nervously. “O-Oh,” he chokes out. “Why?”

 

“Because…” I start to say, but when I can’t even come up with a logical explanation for my own actions, I end up rambling. “Because I can. And you, uh, just looked really peaceful was all… Your eyebrows kind of, like, pull together when you’re thinking real hard about something, and even when you don’t know I’m looking…” I groan, because already, I’ve said too much, but I can’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. “Makes it really fucking hard not to want to kiss you all the time.”

 

Our footsteps start to slow and, once we eventually stop near a narrow, thinly-frozen river passing through the forest, Marco turns toward me. I can’t look up at him. I can’t do it. I can’t–

 

–but then I do, and when my eyes focus on his lips, my breath catches in my throat.

 

“You want to kiss me right now?” he asks, bending his neck downward a little.

 

I scoff. “Don’t ask stupid questions like that.”

 

He laughs once, quietly, then presses his thumb to my chin and turns my head back up to face him. At once, his lips catch mine and I can feel how warm they are; warmer than my hand in his, warmer than my neck and the blush heating its way upward, warmer than fire. There’s these almost audible cracks that spike through my chest, ones that shoot up and outward, ones that physically move me until my hands are at his neck, the 7-Eleven bag forgotten as it drops to the snow at our feet.

 

His hands, which start at my neck, move until palms are flat against my chest. I’m gripping him, hands fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt just past the collar of his winter coat. His teeth catch my lower lip and tug on it, and a low, accidental moan rolls off my tongue. I freeze as soon as I realize what I’ve done, and I half expect Marco to laugh, or break away and say something to lighten the mood – only he doesn’t. Not this time.

 

Instead, his hands move lower until they’re at my waist, fingertips poised above my belt buckle, tugging up the bottom of my shirt past the open folds of my unzipped jacket.

 

“You taste… mn… sweet,” I breathe, eyelids fluttering shut as Marco bends lower, burying his face in the crook of my neck where he runs kisses along my jawline. _Like candy,_ I think, _but different. The kind of sweet that doesn’t come from sugar. Not like gummy worms or fizzy soda… You taste like the sun._

 

Frozen air hits the skin of my stomach and startles me, and I jump a little; Marco has the hem pressed between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and tugging on it while kissing his way back to my lips as though to calm me. Obviously he doesn’t understand the meaning of ‘calm.’ My heart is thrumming so hard it’s practically beating out of my chest.

 

“They’ll wonder what took us so long.” My voice is raspy, even in my own ears.

 

“They might be asleep,” he says quietly, hopeful. His forehead presses up against mine and I can feel his breath on my lips, heavy. “I just want to stay here. Be close to you.”

 

“M-Me too.”

 

We’re quiet for a moment, neither of us moving. His hands on me are firm, like he doesn’t want to accept the fact that we really ought to head back soon.

 

“Maybe we should tell them,” I laugh a little, breaking the quiet despite myself. I’m nervous and it’s showing, but all I can see is his smile and my voice fogging up the air and it makes it hard to keep myself from shaking. “Tomorrow we could.”

 

“We really should,” he agrees, then goes to kiss me again.

 

It happens fast this time. Intoxicating. Breathless. My fingers go to his hair and his hands are roaming my chest, and it’s a painful sort of desperation that we find ourselves lost in. I start to notice the way his lips keep meeting mine, and how his smile starts to leave the corners of his lips. His tongue darts to my mouth and it’s almost like the last time we kissed like this, only… That heat in the bottom of my stomach starts to boil, burning and burning until I’m charred and my whole body is numb to the biting cold. This flame keeps burning, everything in my chest like wildfire, until it starts to spread.

 

Marco realizes it before I do. Slowly, he removes one of his hands from underneath my shirt and trails downward, stopping at the top of my pants, waiting. His finger hooks in my belt loop and he pulls his lips away from mine.

 

“W-What are you…” I start to say, but I can’t finish it. My head is hazy; everything is blurred together, like the world is still turning but I’m stopped, stuck watching it pass by in slow motion.

 

Everything around us is dark, but behind my eyelids bursts a white hot light, like the repeating glow of a hundred flashbulbs bursting.

 

“If it’s okay,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. His eyes find mine and he stares, like he’s searching for something – an answer, a confirmation, recognition and understanding.

 

I know what he means.

 

For a moment, I can’t speak. Swirling, spinning – my head is everywhere but where it should be, and god it’s getting late but, _fuck_ , I don’t care.

 

 _I want this,_ I think desperately. _I want you._

 

“Yeah,” I swallow, “it’s okay.”

 

“Okay,” he repeats. I can feel the way his hand trembles as it slides under my waistline, under my jeans and over my boxers. From my mouth comes a shaky breath, thick in the air as it drifts overhead. His fingers are light as they brush up against me, then direct, hovering over my boxers only a few seconds before he grabs me through the fabric.

 

“Ah, fuck,” I hiss, my hands tightening in his shirt. He bends down again, kissing my neck, and I can feel how warm his cheeks are as they rest against my skin. But I’m burning too, so badly that it blinds me.

 

“Um, does that,” he pauses, his lips moving softly as his breath meets my neck, “does that feel good?”

 

At first I don’t say anything, but when he starts to slide his hand, up and down against the thin fabric, I choke, “Yeah, god.”

 

He sighs, continuing the motion, his fingertips both gentle and deliberate. My breathing is ragged, and the air feels thin. The breath in my lungs isn’t enough anymore; as my hand reaches around his shoulder, I pull myself tightly against him. This is different, so much different than it’s felt before, and although getting myself off on my own has worked, I know now that it’s only because I’ve never known any different.

 

Marco takes this as a sign to keep going, so he does. It only takes another minute before he sucks in a deep breath and reaches over the elastic of my boxers, moving down slowly, hesitantly, and when I feel his hand palming firmly against my dick, I swear, I see stars.

 

“This is okay?” he asks again, starting at the base before he moves to the tip with an aching slowness.

 

I swear under my breath, pinching my eyes shut.

 

“You’re shaking,” he tells me softly.

 

“No,” I say, choking as the words leave my lips, “ _you’re_ the one shaking.”

 

But by now, we realize that we’re both so fucking nervous and aware of one another in this moment that, well, we both are. Time slows. The trees around us are still, the air is cold, but we’re trapped in this stagnant heat that’s self-derived… and the only thing I’m certain of, in this moment, is Marco.

 

I breathe his name. My mouth is against his ear and with every pump of his fist, I feel the tension in the pit of my stomach tightening, and tightening, taking me closer and closer and closer…

 

“I’m here,” he says, like he knows my mind is starting to wander, focusing on this sudden pulsing rushing through my body above all else. “I’m here.” I nod against him, eyes still screwed shut.

 

“God, Marco,” I hiss, “I’m going to come – ah, _fuck._ ”

 

“You can,” Marco murmurs, but I can hear the tremor in his voice as the words cut through the darkness.

 

“Fuck,” I repeat, because out of the entire dictionary, it’s the only word I can so-eloquently manage. “I’m–”

 

But before I can finish what I’m about to say, I feel it – that pressure welling up inside me suddenly released, waves crashing and coursing through my veins as I come in a rush of color. My voice breaks as I cry out, even though it’s fucking embarrassing and _shit,_ I’m clinging onto Marco through the climax like I’m slipping, and he’s the only thing I have to hold onto.

 

His hand doesn’t stop moving, even as I’m coming, and through ragged breaths his name leaves my lips.

 

My body shudders twice, legs wobbling from beneath me, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb rubs downward on the tip in the final moments, holding with just enough pressure that I’m sure I’ll go blind from how fucking amazing it feels. But as the fleeting moment passes, I’m left standing in his arms, catching my breath, trying to remember how to think straight.

 

“Fuck,” I whisper, releasing him from the death grip I’m suddenly very aware I’ve put him in. I pull back, and as I do, he lets go of me and removes his hand from my pants. It’s strange, but when I turn my head upward again to meet his eyes, I don’t have to force it. The nerves that shook me to the bone only minutes before seem to have melted away, and, strange as it is, there’s a calm that settles in the air like a veil, and once again, it’s only us.

 

I can’t help it when an involuntary laugh slips out. “Um, thanks,” I say, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of my neck.

 

He leans toward me a little and kisses me, full-on the lips, no kidding, all-in, like he really honest-to-god means it.

 

“ _Um,_ you’re welcome,” he murmurs as he pulls away, smiling a little.

 

“Quit making fun of me,” I laugh again. My head falls to his shoulder and I sigh, and I can feel it when he does, too, and… God, as terribly awkward as I’d imagine first times could be, I’m thankful for Marco, and for us, and for the fact that we’re still able to take this at our own pace.

 

Marco pulls away to wipe his hand on his pants before picking up the 7-Eleven bag still resting on a pile of snow.

 

“Oh, God,” I wince, “sorry. I’ll do your laundry next time, I swear.”

 

“It’s okay,” he cheeses. “Laundry’s kind of my thing, anyway.” With his other hand, he takes mine and starts to lead us back down the path and toward our dorm.

 

It’s quiet a beat before I nudge him and smirk, “Were you planning that the whole time?”

 

“Planning what?” he asks, as though genuinely confused.

 

“You fucker,” I say, grinning wider. My voice then raises in pitch, giving Marco a little taste of his own mockery. “‘Oh, I don’t want to go back to the dorm. Here, let me just take you down this secluded trail and–’”

 

“Okay, _no,_ ” Marco hurriedly cuts me off. “And, anyway, _you_ were the one giving me that look in the first place.”

 

“Hm, what look?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, pouting my lips as I do so. “This one? Was this the look you were referring to?”

 

He kicks me in the back of the leg and I burst out laughing – and so does he – and, fuck, it’s easy to forget your problems when you’re walking home at midnight with your best friend.

 

I look up to the night sky, eyes darting across pinhole starlight, and I pray to god I can remember this feeling… like nothing in the whole wide world can touch us.

 

* * *

 

The dorm is quiet when we get back. The lights are off, the television’s off, and from Reiner’s bedroom comes the sound of two-toned snoring.

 

“Shh,” he hushes, bringing a finger to his lips as we slip our shoes off and cross the room to our bedroom door. Once inside, we change out of our clothes – I apologize again for coming all over his hand and getting it on his pants, and he assures me, once again, that it’s fine. Then, as soon as I pull a fresh t-shirt out of my bag, I turn around and see Marco climbing up the side of my bunk and crawling in.

 

I smile, unabashedly so. He holds a hand out for me as I start to climb the side, and when I take it, he pulls me up into bed, landing half-on top of him.

 

“Ow, fuck,” I laugh, rolling off of him a little. Marco’s fast though, and before I can get too far, he grabs my shoulders and tugs me close. Wrapping my arms around his middle, burying my face into his chest… it’s like second nature. Through my nostrils I’m breathing him in; that overwhelming smell of cinnamon is something I now associate with home, and it’s strange, realizing you’ve invested yourself so entirely in someone that they start to become a place you live. Not physically, but mentally, emotionally.

 

Marco sighs into my hair. “I trust you too much,” he says tiredly.

 

“Hm? What’s that supposed to mean?” My eyelids flicker shut and I take one more deep breath, full of him.

 

“It’s just,” he starts, but it’s obviously difficult for him to say, even in the dark, even with my arms around him, so I wait until he finds a way of speaking once again. “It’s just that… so much of me, I’ve invested in you. And… I don’t know if you even realize it.”

 

I murmur back without missing a beat: “It goes both ways.”

 

He tucks his head down against mine and presses a soft kiss on the top of my head. There’s a shiver that crawls up my spine as he speaks again, his voice only just above a whisper, and when he does, my eyes open just a fraction.

 

“Every day I wake up with you, beside me, I have to remind myself that this isn’t a dream.” He sighs, and the way his voice sort of trails off leads me to believe he’s verging on sleep. “But I’m difficult and sad most of the time, and you could decide any day that I’m not worth it, but you haven’t.”

 

My grip on his waist tightens and I clench my jaw. “I’m not going to.” I’m so deadly serious, and even though he’s tired, I hope he understands it when I tell him. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

 

“I just,” he sniffs, and fuck, I can feel him change in the way his shoulders tense, the way he holds me tighter like he’s scared of letting go. “I’m really thankful… because, uh, I don’t think I have ever needed someone… as much as I need you. Right now.”

 

His voice breaks, and before long, I can feel him shaking. I keep my hold, steadying him, making sure he knows I’m here. The sniffles turn painful, and soon I’m reaching up, a little nervous as I do, and I’m wiping his tears away with my thumbs, tentatively kissing the places where they stain his cheeks.

 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

 

“ _I’m_ sorry.”

 

My chest feels tight as I shake my head. “Don’t be.”

 

After a while, he starts to calm, and even though it’s hard, he tries anyway. I rub circles against his back with my palm, tangling his legs with mine, reminding him that we’re here, and that we’re okay. There are so many times I wish I could promise that everything will be okay, but, in the end, my words fall flat. I can’t say them, because they aren’t true, and things probably _won’t_ be okay, but that’s… well, that’s part of life. I lie with Marco until he falls asleep, keeping time with the sameness of our even breathing like clock ticks.

 

As I start to drift off, the notion passes through my head that somehow, some way, we will get through this next month, and all the months that follow, even if it hurts. Even if it nearly kills us. But we will make it out alive, because no matter fucking what, I’m going to keep this hold on him, and make sure that he doesn’t fall apart.

 

And I’m going to do it for him because I love him.

 

* * *

 

It’s still dark. It’s the kind of dark that is hard to see through, the kind that consumes and calms and keeps you still. But it isn’t the darkness that wakes me, it’s the sound of Marco’s three-chime ringtone, the one that’s two-bit from the early 00’s. As I squint my eyes open, the blackness surrounding both myself and Marco – who lays curled into my side, hands still tightly fisted in my shirt – is divided only by the dim light reflected off the tiny front-screen of his flip phone near his pillow.

 

I sigh deeply through my nose, rub my eyes once, then shake him awake a bit.

 

“Marco,” I whisper gruffly, “phone’s ringing.”

 

“Hn,” he huffs, moving a bit as he stirs awake. I’m not sure what time it is, but it doesn’t feel like we should be up, taking phone calls at this hour. Marco rolls over slightly, releasing my shirt from his grip, finding the phone as his hands swim through the dark and flicking it open just before the chiming ends.

 

Slowly, and with half-open eyelids, he murmurs, “Hello?”

 

Before the person on the other end speaks, I can feel the urgency, as though it seeps through the receiver and starts filling the comfort of our bed.

 

Giuliana’s voice is sudden, forceful, and jarring.

 

“Marco,” she shouts, so loud that even I can hear. “Wake up, please, it’s–”

 

“Whoa, Mom. Hold on.” Slowly, he sits up from bed and, reluctantly due to lack of sleep, I follow suit. “What’s going on?”

 

“I’m driving to the hospital,” she says, “they said his – it’s breaking, that something happened overnight and Angelo… _Oh,_ God, Marco, you need to come home. _Please._ ”

 

He squints, but he’s alert. We’re both starting to wake up, especially by the sound of Giuliana’s tone and how terrified she sounds. My stomach sinks.

 

“No, Mom,” Marco chokes out, “don’t tell me, he’s…” The words left lingering in the air are words I know he can’t bring himself to say. _Don’t tell me he’s gone._

 

Giuliana takes a deep breath, and amidst the sound of her car’s engine jolting to life, I can hear it shaking. It’s almost like she can’t seem to get the words out, because she can’t fully believe what she’s about to say.

 

We hold our breath and finally, she speaks.

 

“Angelo’s awake.”

 

And… I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. I don’t remember when Marco hung up, or how we managed to scramble down from my bunk bed so quickly. Pieces blur together like a torrential downpour, like we’re struggling to see through a haze of rainy gray.

 

My voice, in my own ears, sounds ragged as I bust into Reiner’s room, flipping on the light switch and running to the bed. They’re nothing but a tangle of limbs and blankets; my hands grab their arms and, without thinking, I’m shaking them both awake. Bertholdt jumps, his eyes snapping open and meeting mine despite the sleep still clouding his vision. Reiner’s slower to start, but my shouting is what eventually wakes him.

 

“We need your car,” I hear myself say – because it doesn’t feel like _I’m_ the one saying it. It’s out-of-body. “Please, Bert – where are your keys? We need the car, we need–”

 

“Slow down,” he says, sitting upright with one hand on the pillow beside Reiner’s head. “W-What happened? Are you – is Marco okay?”

 

“He’s fine, he’s fine–” but I’m struggling to make sense of my own thoughts, with so many thoughts trying to voice themselves all at once “–his brother’s coma is breaking and we have to get to Jinae, _now,_ or– or–”

 

“Are you shitting me?” Reiner’s hand runs through his hair and he’s sitting up too, eyebrows furrowed together, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “No fucking way. No– okay, you can drive, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I assure him, “I can drive.”

 

“Hold on, lemme find my keys,” Bertholdt says, his voice a lot quieter and more precise than either of ours. Marco’s grabbing shit in the living room, probably packing a bag of some kind, making tons of noise. The lights go on and I see him pacing, nervous, flustered.

 

My heart feels like it’s caught in my throat.

 

Bertholdt manages to fish his keys out from the pocket of his pants, flung over the chair across the room. He looks over his shoulder once, straightening, then crosses the room again until he’s standing in front of me, pressing the keys into my grip, trying to tell me where the minivan is parked with a serious expression that I’m envious of. I wish I could think clearly. I wish I could. But all I can do is try to catch words as they pass from his lips, hoping that the things I’m remembering are the important parts.

 

I nod at him anyway, and as soon as he lets go of my shoulders, I’m gone.

 

“Come on,” I call to Marco, who’s just leaving the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door or flip the lights off. His eyes are wide and his shoulders, well, they’re sunken, but I can see through the nerves that he’s ready… and before I hold up the keys and take him by the hand, and before we make our way out to the parking lot across from our building and take off down the road, I reach up and pull myself to him, holding him tightly for just long enough to steady ourselves. His chest is heaving, and he’s breathless, but when we pull apart and I find his eyes… All at once I realize that there’s a lightness there.

 

And I don’t think I’ve ever seen them quite so bright before.

 

* * *

 

I honestly haven’t driven that much. I don’t have a car on campus, and even when I first got my license, I never really used it. In the city, you don’t really need a car because walking or taking the subway is the easiest way around. Still, it’s not like I don’t know how, because I do. I totally do.

 

Even if Marco isn’t totally convinced.

 

“I don’t want to die,” he whispers, looking out the window. It’s four in the morning, and the highway – for the most part – is deserted.

 

“I’m not going to hit anyone,” I scoff, motioning to the open lanes before us. “Like, who am I actually going to hit? A ghost car or something?”

 

“You’re swerving,” he states matter-of-factly. “If you want, you can pull over, and I can–”

 

But I can see his hands shaking from beside me, just beneath the glow of the dashboard light, and out of instinct, I cut him off with a harshness in my voice I don’t mean to use. “Dude, no, just let me do this.”

 

He’s quiet, retreating into himself because I snapped at him, and a minute later, I reach over and grab his hand.

 

“Just relax, okay?” I tell him. “We’ll be there soon. I’m going to get us there as soon as I can.”

 

He looks at me once, nods, then looks back out the window. I have my foot on the gas, pushing hard down on it as we roar down the road. The muffler is shot in Bertholdt’s car, and I know I’m not helping by revving just a bit too hard, but all I can think of is the fact that Giuliana is waiting alone in the hospital room and Marco should be there. Right now.

 

He drums his fingers on the armrest and turns the air on, even though it’s cold as fucking balls, and all we’re wearing are our thin pajamas because changing into regular clothes like decent human beings was not a priority. He stares out the window, fiddles with the radio, tells me when I’m driving wrong and freaks out when I almost rear-end some guy entering the highway (even though it was totally his fault). I can tell he’s doing everything in his power to take his mind off of the anxieties piling up in his mind, pushing down on his shoulders, overwhelming all of his senses.

 

And through it all, I don’t let him go.

 

I glance at him as we pass the Jinae city limit and give his hand a quick squeeze. _I’m here for you,_ I tell him. Not with words, but in everything else.

 

“It’s, uh, the next exit,” he says quietly after a few more minutes. “And the hospital’s just up the road.”

 

As soon as the sign appears on the side of the road, I take the exit too fast – in Marco’s opinion anyway, and he reaches out to put my thigh in a death grip – and suddenly we’re yelling at each other about how I’m not allowed to drive us back home because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and that he’s being a total pussy and needs to stop trying to tell me how to drive because I can drive just _fine,_ thank you very much. We’re bickering and shouting at each other a whole mile down the road… all the way until we see the sign that reads ‘South Jinae Hospital.’ It’s not until then that the hush we’ve been driving in, the one that’s almost eerily quiet, falls back over us.

 

“Take this turn,” he whispers, pointing lightly with his first finger. “Just up there.”

 

I park as close to the entrance as possible. I shut off the engine, remove the keys, and look back over at Marco who is staring up at the hospital silently.

 

“He’s awake,” I state again, and he looks over at me. Before I can stop myself, I’m saying the words that I’ve been wishing I could say this whole time – because now they’re true, and I know he needs them. “It’s going to be alright, you know? Everything is.”

 

He blinks once, nods, then leans across the car and kisses me. Soft. Not hungry, not needy, not desperate because I’m not trying to fix him anymore. I can see it as he pulls away – the smallest of smiles visible on his lips – and it’s like the broken pieces are starting to come together.

 

It’s strange – to see the reflection of actual happiness in someone’s eyes, in its truest and purest form, unadulterated and untainted. I can tell that he’s not perfect, and that these weeks of misery he’s been suffering through aren’t forgotten, but with every passing second they’re fading – and that’s good enough for me.

 

We walk in to the hospital together, my hand at his waist, and find the elevators. Up to Angelo’s floor. Up to the ICU, where we know he’s going to be, and where I hope to god he won’t be staying after the day is through.

 

Marco’s mouth is open a fraction, letting out quick, light breaths as we approach the door to Angelo’s room. With white, clenched knuckles, he raps on the door – earning a muffled ‘come in’ from the other side, and slowly twists the doorknob.

 

Our footsteps are quiet as we approach. Giuliana’s holding her son’s hand, and with her other hand she has a Kleenex to her eye. There’s a pile of Kleenex wads sitting in the garbage can next to her; the rosiness in her cheeks is a testament to how much crying she’s been doing for the past hour and a half.

 

“Marco,” she says, voice breaking before her lips purse together. She stands, and before she has time to cross the room, Marco rushes to meet her and has his arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding onto her tight. She cracks, and the tears she’s begun subsiding bubble back up again and her shoulders shake with sobs.

 

“He’s okay,” Marco says slowly, pulling away just slightly, his voice only just above a whisper, “right?”

 

She can only nod.

 

I look away from them both, my eyes on Angelo. His eyes aren’t open, like I thought they would be. He’s not awake and talking and acting completely back to normal, like how you see in the movies. He’s still sleeping, the same way he has been for months… only there’s slight changes. The longer I stare, I start to pick up subtle differences. Like, I can see his eyes move slightly beneath his eyelids, in a way that makes it seem like he’s dreaming; I notice his fingertips peeking out from the edge of his sheets, twitching ever-so-slightly in an almost indistinguishable way.

 

There are two nurses in the room, checking levels and marking things down on clipboards. They speak in hushed tones about brain activity and a certain spike in signals sent from the brain to certain parts of the body, but from what I can gather, even they aren’t sure how it happened.

 

“It’s a miracle.”

 

I look back to Giuliana, still in Marco’s arms. She peeks over his shoulder and meets my eyes; her words transcend religion, though I know that’s probably how she feels. Regardless of what any of us believe, what _I_ believe, I get the feeling that she’s right.

 

“I wanna see him,” Marco says quietly, letting go of his mother before moving to the side of Angelo’s bed. He glances at the seat, sits down, then looks back up into the peaceful face of his brother.

 

I study his expression – Marco’s – searching for some sort of falter in his gaze, or some sign of being let down, which I only expect because Angelo isn’t awake right now. Not in the way we might have thought, anyway. But no matter how long I look at him, or how hard I study his eyes, I see no change. He keeps looking down at his brother with the same determined expression, the same relief continuously washing over his features, never looking away, never wavering.

 

The smile on his face is certain, and when I see it bloom on his face, it grows in my own chest. That pure happiness starts to soak into my bloodstream, filling me, uncontrollable and intense and overwhelming all at once.

 

“Jean,” Giuliana says at once, and when suddenly she crosses the room and wraps her arms around me, I don’t hesitate to hold her right back. One palm soothes circles in her back, even though she isn’t crying anymore, but she sighs into my chest all the same, like a thousand pent-up sighs that have filled her chest over the past few months are finally releasing.

 

She smiles up at me after a minute, dark eyes red-rimmed and catching mine with an alertness I can’t have imagined. Giuliana, who always seems so tired and worn-out, and yet still so strong, now exudes only strength. That weary expression I never thought I would see her without is a distant memory.

 

“Thank you for taking care of him,” she says quietly, bringing a soft, delicate hand up to meet my cheek. Her thumb smooths over the hairs bristling along my hairline and lets her hand fall to my chest. “And for bringing him here… You, ah, never knew Angelo, but I think you understand how much they need each other right now.”

 

At her words, the image of my own sister flashes in my mind. The longing and incompleteness that rushes through me makes it easy to nod my head, to agree with Giuliana – to tell her that I _do_ understand that need… Because, in this moment, I miss my sister.

 

“I need to go and speak with Dr. Smith,” she tells me softly, unhooking her arm from around me and letting the one at my chest fall to her side. She grabs her purse from the seat in the corner of the room and gives a little nod in Marco’s direction, looking at me as she does so to let me know she’d appreciate me keeping an eye on him. I nod at her, and she smiles back.

 

The door closes behind her softly, and Angelo doesn’t stir, but Marco does. He slides forward in the chair he’s sitting in, leaning with his chin tucked in his arms and practically glowing. Just outside, the edges of a sunrise start to break against the blackness. I sit at the seat near the window and turn my eyes toward the sky, remembering that these same stars shone in the sky the night we all came home from the hospital – the night we all thought that Angelo’s only option was release. So many tears have been shed under this night sky…

 

But it’s morning, and soon it will be light.

 

“Later.”

 

I hear him whisper it to Angelo, only just audible above the quiet chatter of the two nurses bustling about the room. It catches my attention.

 

“I’ll introduce you to Jean,” Marco whispers. “Later, when you’re awake.” After he speaks, he turns a little to look at me across the room.

 

The strongest kid I’ve ever known, growing tall even with tears welling in his eyes. They don’t slip – not yet – but even if they had, he’d still be just as resilient in my eyes.

 

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Marco murmurs to me. “Remind me to tell you later, okay?”

 

I just nod, not really processing his words, still stunned at the fact that their lives – and mine – have all changed in less than two hours. And as fucking unreal as it is… I can’t help it when I close my eyes and think: _Whoever’s up there, if you’re there, and if you’re listening… Thank you._

 

* * *

 

When the morning finally breaks, Angelo’s eyes open for the second time.

 

* * *

 

I spend all day with Marco and his mother at the hospital. I go downstairs alone, and actually do wind up buying some coffee and bagels at the coffee shop (which, as a statement now rooted in firsthand experience, _is_ pretentious) and bring them up to the room again to wait on further recoveries from Angelo. We also speak with several nurses, new students, visiting practitioners from other hospitals, and of course, Dr. Erwin Smith.

 

The look of embarrassment, mixed with thankfulness, mixed with sheer disbelief is constant on his face as he apologizes firstly for leading us to think that Angelo’s condition was not going to change, but that he was so thrilled it had.

 

He also explains to us that no coma is exactly the same, but in cases like Angelo’s, the progress is slow-moving. It starts with a few moments of regained consciousness, progressing perhaps over the span of a week (or a few) until the patient is ready to begin therapy and access to full mobility. In other words, he might not be fully awake for a while.

 

But that’s just fine with Marco and Giuliana. In fact, they both agree that this seems to be a more natural progression, and gives him some room to fully recover… After all, being out for six months isn’t, like, the easiest thing to bounce back from.

 

This is a start though.

 

I end up staying in Jinae for the weekend. I call Bertholdt and apologize for taking his car, but he assures me it’s fine and that as long as it comes back in one piece by Monday, I can use it. He seems a little nervous about it, though, but I think he only pushes himself to trust me with it because he knows Marco wants me there.

 

Every single day, we’re in the hospital, spending time with Angelo. Giuliana, given the circumstances, is allowed off from work to care for her son so she spends a lot of time with us. We talk, take naps, read, play cards – typical, boring, waiting-around-at-the-hospital stuff, but none of it is really that bad considering Marco’s there, and honestly, he’s the only one I think I could do any of this stuff for.

 

Angelo does sleep a lot of the time. _Most_ of the time, actually – but on that first night, he opens his eyes for a full five minutes and comes to for long enough to speak to his family, even if it is only a few weak words. He’s not completely aware of his circumstances yet, so Marco and Giuliana don’t try and introduce me. I don’t expect them to. He’s got enough to handle as it is.

 

I don’t miss the look on Marco’s face when his brother recognizes him. “You remember me, right?” Marco asks, and Angelo nods. “I’m your brother.” He nods again, and smiles lightly, and when he does, Marco loses it. Through tears he ruffles Angelo’s asymmetrically cut hair and, tired as he may be, the freckled boy in the hospital bed whispers a joking: _“Stoooop.”_ I don’t think I’ve ever seen Marco as relieved as he looked right then.

 

We go home – or, back to Marco’s – later that night, and the feeling of his bed is comfortable. Like everything is back in its rightful place. Marco looks at Angelo’s bed, and when he turns to me after a few minutes, he tells me he can’t wait to brush the dust off the covers.

 

He kisses me for an hour straight. We fall asleep, waiting for the morning to come again so we can go back to visit his brother.

 

The rest of the weekend flies by. More extended card games of war, a lot of TLC on the hospital TV (which I almost protest, but it’s Giuliana’s choice and Marco shoots me a look as if to say: _don’t you dare_ ), and waiting. Waiting seems to be the one constant through everything that we do. Waiting for doctors, nurses, mealtimes, and – above all – new signs of Angelo coming to.

 

Which, although his awakenings are few and far in between, he does. Five minutes is all it usually is, sometimes even less – but he seems more alert each time, and he’s able to speak just a bit more with the passing of time.

 

Giuliana gets teary every time, but Marco’s learned to get himself under control. That first time he broke down sobbing was a fluke, he swears, and he makes the joke to Angelo that he’s been a big sap without him around. Angelo vows to change that – and after he does, he falls back asleep.

 

It’s so cyclic that I don’t realize Sunday is over until it is. The sunset streaks the sky and Marco sits with me by the window while Giuliana quietly knits beside Angelo.

 

Even though it isn’t a secret, it feels like it is when Marco slides his hand in mine and sighs. I feel that scarlet blush staining my cheeks, and when he murmurs something about my embarrassment, I play it off as the sunset reflecting off the glass – so smooth.

 

But then he brings up how late it’s getting, and says that the sun is going to be down soon. He says that he doesn’t want me driving alone in the dark.

 

It’s this statement that catches me off-guard.

 

“Wait,” I say, perhaps a little too loud, “you’re not coming back with me?”

 

Marco is quiet for a minute, looking from me to Angelo, then back at where I sit. His eyes stare down at our hands, and he sighs softly. “You know I need to be here. With my brother.”

 

“For how long?” My head tilts inadvertently to the side, downward and toward him, and I catch Marco biting his lip.

 

“Maybe a few days,” he answers honestly. “Maybe for the week. I’m not sure.”

 

“But…” I start to say. _But what about your classes?_ I finish in my head. _What about your job at the café? What about me?_ But as my own selfishness crosses my mind, I realize that nothing Trost University has to offer him as an alternative use of his time measures up to how much he needs his brother, and how desperately his mother and brother both need him.

 

I cough, centering myself, and give his hand a squeeze. “I understand. And, um, good luck.”

 

It’s so strange, but this almost feels like a goodbye. My mind flashes back to that first weekend Marco went home and how terrible it was. How all my time felt like it was spent just waiting for him to come back. I hope this week isn’t the same way.

 

 _When did you become so fucking needy?_ I think ruefully.

 

“I’ll text you,” Marco says. “Um, want me to walk you to the car?”

 

I don’t say anything – just nod and stand, letting go of his hand and making my way to Giuliana to say goodbye. She hugs me tight and says something about coming back to visit whenever I can. I just nod and pull away, but before I turn to follow Marco out the door, she places a hand gently on my arm and pulls me down to her level… just so she can give me a kiss on the cheek.

 

I flush again, and with one last wave in her direction, Marco and I start heading down to the parking lot.

 

“You still have the scarf I gave you, right?” Marco asks, as we walk down the stairs this time instead of taking the elevator… He leads me this direction because I think we’re both not wanting to go our separate ways.

 

“Of course,” I say.

 

He laughs. “Good. And good luck with your laundry. We skipped doing it the other day so you might make it through to next weekend, if you’re lucky.”

 

“I’m a betting man,” I smirk.

 

We practically drag our feet down the stairs. It’s a longer walk, but I wish there were twenty more floors to walk because I don’t want the feeling of his hand in mine to slip away.

 

“It’s only a week,” he reminds me.

 

“I know.”

 

Marco waits a moment before laughing aloud, knocking my shoulder with his. “You’ve got the look on your face like you’re going to war.”

 

“Shut up!” I tell him.

 

“Drama queen.”

 

My eyes roll into the back of my head – into infinity. With a hand over my heart, I scoff, “Wow, Marco. I am _hurt._ ”

 

We’re both laughing as we walk out the sliding doors, but once the graying sunset meets our eyes, that laughter begins to fade. We’re quiet once again, still hand-in-hand, but grudgingly making our way to the minivan covered in snow sitting out near the back of the lot.

 

“Text me,” I tell him at the door.

 

“You know I will,” he laughs, “I already said that I would.”

 

“You better not be a liar, Marco Bodt.”

 

He huffs, looking upward once before meeting my eyes again. Slowly, he bends his head and I take a half-step forward, and after one drawn-out moment, I catch his lips with mine.

 

“The bed’s gonna feel empty,” Marco sighs.

 

“I know.” But even as I say it, I can’t help but smile. “But soon, Angelo will be sleeping across the room again. That doesn’t sound that lonely to me.”

 

We scuffle our feet in the slush, wasting time, waiting for something to happen but nothing ever really does. A few cars pass us, flinging snow up at the backs of our legs, but aside from that, the parking lot is pretty quiet.

 

“I should leave,” I say finally. “I’ll– I’ll call you when I get back, just to, uh, check in or whatever.”

 

“Yeah,” Marco laughs. “I don’t want to hear about my boyfriend on the news, that he died on the drive from here to Trost because he doesn’t know how to use the brake pedal.”

 

“You’re an asshole.”

 

Marco sticks his tongue out, then brightens again and shoves me a little toward the car. “Okay, go. It’s seriously going to be dark soon.”

 

“Alright,” I reply with a half-smile.

 

“…Alright.”

 

I nod. “Yep.”

 

“Quit dragging it out, oh my god,” Marco laughs, then opens the car door for me. “I can’t deal with you anymore.”

 

“Alright,” I say again, just once more, for good measure before closing the door shut behind me. I dig the keys out of my pocket, stick them in the ignition and lean over, rolling down the window with the manual window crank.

 

“I _am_ happy for you, you know,” I say a little nervously above the sound of the engine. “And even though I’m going to miss you, I’m glad you have Angelo back.” I pause, one hand sliding up to take the wheel. “I just, um, wanted you to know.”

 

“I know,” Marco grins, looking up at me with that dumb pompom hat stuck over his head. The fluffy strings of it ruffle in the breeze, and just then, the beginnings of a light snowfall begin to dust down from the sky.

 

He blinks once, then leans in through the car window. “See you soon, old man,” is all he says before leaning in for one last quick kiss – his eyes fluttering shut as he does so – and I can’t help it when I do the same.

 

“Bye,” I wave, rolling up the window and giving him one last smile before pulling out of the parking spot and driving off down the road. I glance up at the rearview mirror and see Marco standing in the middle of the row, waving at me with his little red and white striped glove.

 

 _One week,_ I think to myself as I turn onto the highway. _It’s only for a week._

 

But already, I get the feeling like this is about to be the longest motherfucking week of my whole goddamn life.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning is a nightmare. I wake up late because my alarm doesn’t feel like going off at the designated time, my hair looks like I slept in a barn, and as soon as I head out of the eerily-quiet bedroom, Reiner and Bertholdt are there to assault me with questions about the trip. They hadn’t been in when I got there the night before, so I’d gone to bed without them and left Bert’s keys on the little coffee table as a sign that, when they _did_ get back, his ride was still left in one piece.

 

I try to answer them all, but I’m fucking exhausted and in a little of a pissy mood without Marco there to assuage my morning grumpiness.

 

“You should stop by the café and get a coffee before class,” Reiner says a little tersely before I head out the door. “You look like you could use it.”

 

“Alright, dad,” I mutter.

 

“Hey, don’t be like that,” he calls, but I cut his last word off by closing the door behind me. “You little punk,” he finishes a bit too loud, but only so I can hear him through the door.

 

I’m about halfway to class when I decide: _Fuck it, I’m already late so I might as well skip, and even though I don’t want to admit Reiner’s right, I’m going to follow his advice and grab myself a cup of coffee to help soothe me in my morning of need._ I stop by the café – since the Starbucks in the cultural center is a little out of the way – and get a cup of Joe from the crazy glasses lady, then head to Jason C. Black where my next class will be and take a seat. I pull my phone out and flip through text messages, rereading those Marco had sent the night before. Lots of smiley faces. Lots of hearts.

 

Despite the truth of the matter, I will never admit to sending the majority of either of those. Ever.

 

Eventually I decide I should try and study a little before class. I extract my notebook grudgingly from my bag and try to focus, but it’s hard when my thoughts are elsewhere.

 

Maybe it’s because I’m sitting so close to the café where Marco works, but it’s almost as though all of the other workers are attracted to the area. I look up from my notes as an overpowering flowery smell wafts through the air – and I recognize the head of brown hair tied up high in a ponytail, followed closely by her slightly-shorter colleague with a buzz cut.

 

“Yo,” I call out to them, “Connie, Sasha.”

 

Sasha spins on her heel, jerking Connie back with her – and I realize their hands are twined together. “Oh, Jean!” she grins, taking one quick look at Connie before walking over. “We were just on our way to Physics. How was your break?”

 

“Uh,” I manage, so many thoughts coming to mind – but the most prominent is Marco’s lips on mine. “…It was okay.”

 

“Yeah?” Connie winks, then holds up their hands. “Ours too.”

 

I laugh, sticking my tongue out a little. “Gross.” Except it really isn’t gross at all… it’s almost sweet. Almost. But I obviously don’t let on to that.

 

“Hey man, we’re running kinda late,” Connie sighs, then lets go of Sasha’s hand to extend it in my direction. “Nice to see you though, we all should hang out sometime, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” I laugh, clapping his hand and shaking it in typical bro-shake fashion. “See you guys later.”

 

Sasha waves a little and they both start to head off, and I smile a little to myself as they do so. But just as I’m about to return back to looking at my notes, I hear the inklings of a familiar sharp, brutish laughter coming from down the hallway. At first, like usual, I think it’s just my imagination; this school isn’t small, by any means – there are multiple buildings all over campus, and thousands of students attending. I barely have scratched the surface when it comes to acquaintances, so the amount of recognizable faces is upsettingly slim.

 

So that’s why it’s in such irony that, from around the corner, strides Armin Arlert… and that big dumb stupid loser, Eren Jaeger.

 

They’re both laughing about something, or rather, Eren is. Armin’s blushing a little because he’s probably embarrassed, because Eren is _making_ him embarrassed, but he smiles anyway. Before they see me, it’s almost like they’re in their own little world, and if I’m being honest with myself, they seem happy. Like, genuinely. Even if Eren’s a prick, of which I have concrete evidence.

 

I start to slouch down in the chair to avoid being seen, but right at the last second, Eren’s eyes meet mine over the textbook I’ve almost shielded my eyes with.

 

“Why?” I whisper to myself, looking to the heavens and resting my head at the pages’ spine. “Why me?”

 

“Oh, hey!” Armin calls, his soft voice carrying a bit more power with Eren at his side. “Jean! Over here!”

 

I hesitate, cringing as I do, but eventually pull the book away from my face and look up at the pair of them with a totally forced smile. “Oh, hey Armin,” I cough, trying to fix my face so that it isn’t completely obvious how annoyed I am to see Eren.

 

Eren nods at me once. “‘Sup, Jean,” he says, eyes fixed on me coolly. “You doin’ okay?”

 

“I’m fine.” It’s a struggle not to roll my eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I say it like it’s rhetorical, but the look that suddenly flashes in Armin’s eyes reads otherwise, like he’s questioning me, _really_ trying to figure out why I shouldn’t be happy. Or… maybe it’s not even a question. Maybe he actually knows _._

 

“Um, well,” he fidgets, answering for Eren, tucking a hair behind his ear and shifting his bag’s weight on his shoulder. “M-Marco texted me and mentioned he wouldn’t be at work for a couple days, needed his shifts covered? And, um, I didn’t mean to pry or anything.”

 

I look from Armin to Eren, and the way he doesn’t look surprised at Armin’s words gives me the feeling that he’s probably been filled in on the situation.

 

“I knew his brother was… in a coma,” Armin continues, “but I guess I hadn’t realized how long it had been. A-And then he told me, _you_ were actually the one to drive him there. To the hospital. Like, in the middle of the night.”

 

For some reason, his tone sounds a little awed. Proud, kind of. In the end, I start fidgeting, too. “Yeah, I did.”

 

Armin’s smile brightens a little, and he shoots Eren a look – only Eren is still watching me, and even though it’s a little unnerving, it’s different than the looks I’m used to getting from him. His eyes are softened, his mouth a thin line pressed tightly, like he’s thinking.

 

“That’s pretty cool of you,” is all he says.

 

“Oh, so I’m cool now,” I snort. “You’re hilarious.”

 

He narrows his eyes and snaps back, “I wasn’t saying it to be a dick.”

 

“You’re a dick, regardless,” I shoot back at him.

 

“Wow, okay!”

 

The sudden heat building between us dissipates at the small blonde's outburst; Armin holds both hands up in front of him, eyes wide, stopping us both before we say anything further. “You guys… need to just not. For like, two seconds.” He turns toward me and claps his open palms together, speaking in the most direct way possible – with conviction. “Jean… we really don’t mean anything by it. Eren doesn’t. And, ah, we’re both really glad for him.”

 

There’s a pause before any of us say anything, but when we do, it’s Eren who breaks the silence.

 

He folds his arms across his chest. “Armin’s right, I… fuck, I didn’t mean anything. I know you two are really close, and I’m… I’m really happy for you guys.”

 

Armin doesn’t seem to understand the implications of his words, but I do. My initial reaction is to rip him a new one, tell him he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about – because that’s what I would have done before. In fact, it’s exactly what I _did_ do, back in October, back when he tried to bring it up the first time and I shot him down, punched him in the face, ruined his Halloween party and swore I was never going to speak to this kid ever again.

 

But right before I open my mouth, I stop myself.

 

“Do you mean it?” I ask Eren – and as smart and observant as Armin is, I’ve never seen him more confused.

 

I stand up so that we’re facing each other eye-to-eye, so that we’re on even ground. And, in a strange way, the way we’re standing and the fact that our voices are back to a normal level – and the way there’s no anger in his eyes, for the first time in a long, long time, reminds me of grade school. Back when we were friends. Before, when I used to be able to tell him everything, before that fight and our falling out and before the animosity I’ve felt toward him ever since.

 

He stares at me for another moment, nods once, and cracks the smallest of smiles.

 

“Yeah man,” he says. “I mean it.”

 

I nod at him once – and, suddenly, even though we haven’t said anything at all, even though we never said our ‘sorry’s like they teach you in elementary school, that weight in my chest that always lingered there from hating him so relentlessly starts to ease… Just a little bit.

 

“Okay,” I reply. “Thanks… I’ll tell him.”

 

Armin makes small talk for a few minutes after. It’s more about classes and work, parties, and maybe getting lunch when Marco gets back to school. He also promises to grab the homework from their class together before they both head in the direction of the University Center. I watch on with a weird nostalgia as they exit the building, Eren’s eyes flashing back at me once over his shoulder before following out the door.

 

I take a sip of my coffee that’s not very warm anymore and without thinking, I start to smile.

 

Acceptance is a weird thing. Acceptance of circumstances, acceptance of shit that happened years ago, and most importantly, acceptance of myself. Thinking back to my first day of college, and how stupid and ignorant I was – not even six months ago – makes me wish that Marco was here. Maybe if he was, I’d tell him that finally, I’m starting to realize that I’m wrong a lot of the time, and that… well, that’s alright.

 

Because even if I don’t have all the answers right now, I’m figuring things out. In my own way.


	19. a light in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is officially the longest chapter in the entire story. my fingers are probably going to fall off. hopefully, it's worth it for you guys! (:

It feels like someone is holding down the fast forward button.

 

Mom and I spend all of our time at the hospital with Angelo; we sleep in shifts, pushing two chairs together, so that at least one of us is always awake when he opens his eyes. His waking periods are longer each time as the medicine wears off. Doctor Smith changes him to a new medication in his IV, to help wean him back to reality.

 

Angelo is taken off most of the machines that used to keep him alive. He can breathe for himself again, and all the strong medications are gone. All that remains are the basic IV needle and the heart monitor. On Monday morning, he’s taken for a round of scans, to make sure that everything is still looking good. Everyone has only good news to tell us, which makes the bags under our eyes and the back aches worth it.

 

Every time I see his big brown eyes, my heart feels lighter. The knots that have been tying over the months are untangling themselves. Slowly, as Angelo wakes up, I feel myself breathing easier.

 

“Do you have a seven?” I ask, my cards fanned out in front of me.

 

“Go fish,” Angelo says, laughing at me when I groan. “Do you have any fours?”

 

Reluctantly, I have over two fours, which earns a big cheese smile from him. It’s the third game of Go Fish in a row, and he’s won every single round. Despite being in a coma for six months, Angelo hasn’t seemed to lost his competitive side in the slightest.

 

Mom returns to the room with Doctor Smith, both with smiles at all the good news we’ve been getting lately. She sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching forward to gently ruffle Angelo’s (still asymmetrically cut) hair.

 

“How are you feeling today Angelo?” Doctor Smith asks, checking the fluid in the bag that’s attached to his IV.

 

“Great! Hardly even tired,” he replies, setting his cards down in his lap. “Everyone said that my scans came back really good, too. Does that mean I can leave soon, Doc?”

 

He laughs a bit at this. “Things do look to be going very well for you, but don’t rush it too much.”

 

He writes a few notes down on the clipboard before setting it back down for the nurse check ups later. He pulls up a chair to sit down, adjusting the glasses that are rested on his nose.

 

“There is something I would like to discuss with you all,” he says formally.

 

“Go ahead,” Mom tells him, her hand now resting on Angelo’s. He tries to pull it away, but she just holds him tighter and eventually he gives up the struggle. I laugh at him and he sticks his tongue out at me. He’d been patient at first with how touchy Mom was, but after a few days, he’s too restless to take it without a fight.

 

“Because Angelo has been in a comatose state for so long, I wanted to recommend this rehabilitation program,” Doctor Smith says, handing a flyer to Mom to look at. “It’s here at the hospital, so he could complete the program before being discharged.”

 

Mom scans the pamphlet, opening it up fully. I glance at it over her shoulder, before exchanging a glance with Angelo and shrugging to him.

 

“What do I need rehab for?” Angelo asks, reaching out for the flyer. Mom hands it to him so he can take a look.

 

“Most likely, you will need help relearning how to walk,” he informs him, his voice softer as he tells him this new information. “It’s optional, though I recommend if because it would make it easier on all three of you.”

 

“What do you think, honey?” Mom asks, patting Angelo’s hand that she’s trapped between both of hers. “I’m up for anything that will make it easier on you.”

 

“I’ll do it,” Angelo says, letting the flyer drop on his lap with his cards. “When can I start?”

 

Doctor Smith chuckles at how eager he is. “I’ll send the nurse in later with the forms. In the meantime, we’re going to be removing the catheter so you’ll be able to use the restroom. How does that sound, Angelo?”

 

“Fantastic!” he says, fist pumping a little, which makes us all laugh. “Can’t wait to pee in the toilet again.”

 

“Angelo!” Mom shushes him, her cheeks red with embarrassment as she side eyes Doctor Smith. But he’s laughing, standing from his chair.

 

“Mom! You don’t understand what it’s like to have this thing. I miss the freedom of peeing in an actual toilet.” He pauses before, more quietly, adding, “Plus the nurse who has to clean my pee pan is, like, super cute. Do you even know how _embarrassing that is_?”

 

“You may need to help him get to the restroom, or call a nurse to help him,” Doctor Smith says as he washes his hands in the sink before pulling gloves on. “His muscles will be a bit stiff.”

 

Doctor Erwin Smith has us leave the room while he and a nurse remove the catheter. One of the nurses at the station gives Mom the forms for the rehabilitation program, which she fills out immediately. While she does, I step out into the stairwell, pulling my phone out to find that I’ve got several text messages from Jean, and one from Armin.

 

**From: Jean**

Call me when u can!!!

 

**From: Jean**

If u don’t call me soon I will assault u with pics of Reiner currently. Trust me u don’t want to see this

 

There’s a good ten minutes between the last one and the next one. I open the picture, snorting and having to cover my mouth to muffle my laughter. A model shot of Reiner wearing a colorful shirt and huge sunhat. His back is facing Jean, but he’s looking at him over his shoulder and has his hand on his hip.

 

The next picture is similar, but it also features Bertholdt with Reiner sitting on his lap trying to make the most outrageous duck face possible. _Poor Bertl,_ I think as I move on to the next one.

 

Reiner, up-close, blowing a kiss at the camera.

 

I check the last text message, which is from Armin. His just lets me know that he’s got my shifts covered for the week and that he’ll help me catch up on homework when I get back. He ends his with a smiley face, telling me that he’s really happy for me.

 

I find Jean’s name in my contacts and press the call button, bringing the phone up to my ear. He answers on the second ring.

 

“Hello? Marco?” he asks into the receiver, his voice sounding out of breath.

 

“Hey,” I reply, raising my eyebrows as he makes a loud groaning sound. “What’s, uh, going on?”

 

“I’m jus- OW! Fuck, Reiner!”

 

“What?”

 

I hear a loud boisterous laughter from the other end, followed by several more moments of heavy breathing and grunts from Jean. I wait patiently, trying to imagine what could possibly be happening to cause these sort of sounds.

 

“Marco? Sorry. Reiner just sat his big fucking ass on me,” Jean tells me and I hear the familiar creek of my bed, which makes me smile. “I just got away, but damn, Hunky Muscles almost just suffocated me under his ass of steel.”

 

I laugh, taking a seat on the stairs. “Is this what you guys do when I’m not around?”

 

“Yeah, pretty much.” Jean’s quiet laughter fills my end, and I close my eyes, summoning all the moments when I laid beside him and tried to memorize every bit of him that I could. “So, uh, how’s everything going?”

 

“Really good. We’ve had nothing but good news so far,” I tell him. “All of his scans and tests came back great. He’s awake now, and they took him off a lot of the medications, so he’s more aware of what’s going on.”

 

“That’s great, Marco!” Jean says softly.

 

I tell Jean about playing Go Fish, about Angelo’s crush on the nurse who cleans his pee pan, and about how happy Mom is. He listens intently, encouraging me when I fall short on words. I tell him how happy I am to have Angelo back, how he’s just the same as before, and how things seem to finally be working out.

 

I tell him I miss him.

 

“What time do you come back on Sunday?” he asks, his voice in a whisper now.

 

“Sometime around five,” I reply, glancing up as a doctor rushes down the stairs, passing by me. “I love being here with Angelo and Mom, but I’ll be glad when I’m back home with you.”

 

“Me, too,” he whispers with a sigh. “Classes fucking suck without you there to distract me.”

 

I smile down at my lap as I pick at a stray string on my jeans. “You’ll have to teach me everything that I missed this week.”

 

“I doubt I’ll be able to. I don’t know what I’m learning half the time.”

 

We talk for a few more minutes before Mom opens the door to the stairway to tell me that Angelo’s asking for me. Before we hang up, Jean tells me that he misses me, too.

 

Then he just actually does hang up, like an embarrassed middle school kid who just admitted to having a crush on someone.

 

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I roll my eyes. Truth be told, I can’t really help the big dumb smile that spreads across my lips, though, as I open the door and walk back to Angelo’s room.

 

“Marco!” Angelo says excitedly as I step into his room. “Can you help me to the bathroom?”

 

Mom’s sitting by the window, picking up the cards, and she rolls her eyes. “I offered to help, but he said it would be too embarrassing for me to help him.”

 

“Yeah, no problem!” I reply, helping him out from under the covers. “Man, you are going to be so mad at Mom for what she did to your hair.”

 

“What?” Angelo asks, whipping his head around to look at Mom with accusing eyes. “How bad is it?”

 

“Oh, honey, you look great!” Mom tells him, leaning down to kiss his forehead as if this is enough to reassure him. I stifle a laugh as I put one of Angelo’s arms around my shoulder, and help him to his feet. “Be careful with him, Marco!”

 

“I will,” I reply, helping Angelo slowly walk to the bathroom. Once inside, he grips the counter by the toilet to help him stand. I hold the hospital gown up for him, looking the other way as he does his business. A minute later, as he’s washing his hands, he gets a look at his reflection in the mirror.

 

“Holy crap,” he says, reaching up to run his fingers through his dark curly hair.

 

“It’ll grow back,” I offer lightly, as his mouth falls open.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, disbelief all over his face.

 

I offer a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before we make our way back to the bed. When we emerge from the bathroom, he looks at Mom and motions with his free hand that isn’t clutching onto me, to his hair.

 

“What have you done?” he asks, which makes her roll her eyes at him. It takes both of us to get him situated back on the bed, and Mom brings the blanket up over his legs. “Mom, seriously! How could you? Forget the pee pan, that nurse has seen me with _this haircut_?”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic! It looks fine,” Mom tells him, flicking him on the forehead. “Would you rather I shave it all off?”

 

“ _YES_!” he cries, raising his arms above his head in the single most dramatic way I’ve ever seen. It makes me laugh, as I take my seat on the edge of his bed, because this somehow reminds me of Reiner.

 

We spend the rest of the afternoon talking and talking and talking. Angelo asks Mom about home, about work, about what she plans on cooking for his homecoming dinner. When she can’t stand to answer another question because there are just so many, she goes to get a coffee, leaving the two of us alone.

 

“Tell me about college! What’s it like living away from home on your own?” Angelo asks, his elbows perched up on his knees, his hands holding his face up as he stares at me with wide, curious eyes. “Have you made any friends? Do you have a girlfriend?”

 

“College is great. Really great, I really love it,” I tell him honestly, pulling a chair up close to his bed as I talk. “I work at a coffee stand on campus, and I’ve made some cool friends there. There’s Armin, who’s also doing pre-med, so we take classes together. Sasha and Connie, who love food a lot and each other. Then there’s Reiner, who’s one of my roommates, and his boyfriend, Bertholdt who is practically our other roommate because he’s always there.”

 

Angelo nods his head, listening intently to every word I say. It hits me, suddenly, that Angelo doesn’t know about Jean. Angelo doesn’t know that I have a boyfriend, or that I even like boys, at all.

 

It’s a different feeling, though, than it was when I knew I had to tell Mom. Telling Angelo is less scary, because he always knew my secrets when we were younger. Mostly because he snooped and liked to blackmail me, but also because he was always a great listener.

 

“I don’t have a girlfriend, but I do have someone special to me,” I inform him, watching as he leans forward more.

 

“Who?” he asks. “Who, who, who? Marco, tell me!”

 

“His name is Jean Kirschtein.” I pause, chewing on the inside of my cheek for a moment. “He’s actually, uh, my boyfriend.”

 

Angelo blinks a few times, but he doesn’t look away from me. I feel my heart hammer in my chest, because slowly, it’s getting easier to say those words to others around me. _My boyfriend,_ I think brightly, watching as Angelo smiles at me.

 

Angelo leans forward to punch my arm, but it’s a weak hit, even for play.

 

“When do I get to meet him?” he asks me excitedly. “What’s he look like? Do you have a picture?”

 

I laugh, pulling my phone out. I open the pictures, pulling up one that is currently the background of his iPhone, showing him. Angelo takes it from my hands, looking at the picture intently for what feels like a long time. When he finally hands it back, he offers me an accepting smile.

 

“He looks like he’s probably moody,” he says with a shrug. “Does Mom know?”

 

“Yeah, she adores him. He was over for break, actually,” I inform him, as I slide my phone back into my pocket. “He drove me here when Mom told me you were waking up. He was here the whole first day, but you were barely awake, so you probably don’t remember.”

 

Angelo frowns. “I don’t remember him. Sorry, Marco.”

 

“Hey, it’s okay! I’m sure you’ll meet soon enough.” I smile reassuringly at him, which seems to help. After that, he asks all about Jean – what does he do in college, who made the first move, how we met, everything.

 

So I tell him the whole story. How I walked into my dorm room, terrified and shy, and met this guy who always looked so mad. Funny how we ended up partners in Chemistry, and how I nude modeled for his art class on accident (which at this point, Angelo interjects to shout, “WHAT? You were _naked_ in front of a class full of _people_?”). When I think of Jean, I tell him I remember strawberry pop-tarts, our red matching sweaters and laundry. Studying together, recovering from hangovers together, bowling together… our story is laced together by the consistency that we both needed each other in our lives.

 

When I finish telling him everything, Angelo tells me he’s proud of me. It makes my chest feel tight with happiness, and I reach forward to hug him tightly. Holding Angelo, awake and alive, in my arms again feels like I’ve come full circle.

 

Like things are finally going to turn out okay.

* * *

Angelo ends up really liking his rehabilitation program.

 

I take him twice before I have to go back to Trost. The first time, on Thursday, he’s nervous and worried that he’ll look stupid. I try to reassure him that he won’t, but he doesn’t seem comforted by my words. When he goes in, we meet with the doctor there, Doctor Mike Zacharias, but he tells us to just call him Doctor Z. He’s funny and charming, much like Doctor Smith, but in a more down to earth way.

 

He starts Angelo on simple exercises, like stretching to get his muscles to loosen up a bit. He invites me to do them, too, so that he’ll feel less intimidated. After a bit of stretching, he works with Angelo on helping to bend his knees, testing the flexibility of each. By the end of the session, he has Angelo using two bars to help him walk, though he struggles a bit.

 

By the second visit on Saturday morning, Angelo takes a big liking to Doctor Z. He talks to him excitedly about everything – _especially_ his crush on the nurse.

 

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Doctor Z jokes, laughing when Angelo gets embarrassed and tells him not to.

 

By the end of the second session, Angelo is starting to get better at the stretching. He works on it even in his hospital room, trying his best to get back on his feet. When Mom sees him stretching out his legs, and asks her to help him with bending his knees up, she starts crying because she’s so proud of him.

 

We spend the rest of the evening playing War and Go Fish with our deck of cards. Mom beats both of us shamelessly, which puts Angelo in a mood because he’s always been a sore loser. He asks for my help to go to the bathroom one more time before he goes to sleep, sighing at his reflection in the mirror again. He mumbles about his hair grumpily as I help him back to the bed.

 

“Goodnight, honey,” Mom says, kissing his forehead.

 

“Night, Angelo,” I tell him, giving him a tight hug. “My train leaves in the morning, so I probably won’t see you for a bit.”

 

Angelo nods, his fingers holding tightly to the fabric of my shirt. He keeps his arms around my neck for as long as possible, and I smile as he buries his face in my shoulder.

 

“Come back soon,” he tells me quietly, “okay?”

 

“Okay,” I promise, finally pulling away.

 

“Bring Jean with you next time, too!” he says with a big grin on his face.

 

“I will,” I laugh, ruffling his hair. “Get some sleep. You’ve got rehab in the morning.”

 

Angelo waves as Mom and I step out of the room. Mom says she’s staying at the hospital, so we say our goodbyes in the hallway. I hug her tightly, both of us able to – finally – breathe a sigh of relief. Months of pain and struggle have finally paid off, and things are going so well.

 

For the first time since I first left for college, I don’t feel guilty leaving her behind. Because now, I know she won’t be alone.

 

I take the bus home, and walk the rest of the way from the stop. The house looks a bit messy, since Mom and I haven’t really been home other than to occasionally shower and change our clothes. I take a little bit of time to do the dishes and clean up, so when she comes home, it’s not such a disaster for her to worry about.

 

My pocket rings with a text message. I dry my hands off on a towel before digging it out, seeing Jean’s name flash across my screen.

 

**From: Jean**

R u awake?????

 

I decide to call him, putting the phone up to my ear as I walk back toward my room to get changed into comfortable pajamas to sleep in. He picks up on the first ring this time, his voice quiet as he whispers out a hello.

 

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask, using my feet to kick my pants off.

 

“I just can’t sleep,” Jean replies with a big sigh. “Are you still at the hospital?”

 

“No, I’m at home now to get some sleep before I come back to Trost tomorrow.”

 

I tell him to hang on for a second so I can finish changing, and set the phone down on my bed. Once I’m dressed and my dirty clothes are put in the hamper, I crawl into bed, putting the phone back up to my ear.

 

“Okay,” I tell him quietly, “I’m back.”

 

We don’t talk about much, but somehow, we end up staying on the phone for two hours. Sometimes, there’s a quiet lull between us and it’s comfortable to just hear his steady breathing on the other end. It makes it easier to trick myself into thinking I’m laying beside him in bed when I close my eyes.

 

“I really miss you,” I whisper after a long time, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep.

 

When he doesn’t respond for another minute, I close my eyes again and smile to myself. His breathing is even and if I listen closely, I can hear the soft sound of quiet snoring.

 

“I love you,” I whisper.

* * *

The four hour train ride back to Trost seems to go in slow motion. I spend the whole time texting Jean to distract myself from thinking too much about how slow time is moving. I listen to music, try to sleep, go to the bathroom four times just for something to do and to give myself an excuse to walk around instead of being stuck in the seat the whole time.

 

But it seems like it takes _forever_.

 

Maybe impatience is another trait I gained from spending all my time with Jean.

 

When the train – finally – pulls up to the station, I’m one of the first ones off. I rush for the buses there to take me to campus, texting Jean to let him know that I’m almost home. He promises to meet me at the gate so we can walk back to the dorms together.

 

My leg bounces with anticipation of getting to see Jean again. A week away from him and I feel like I’m falling apart. I never realized just how clingy I was.

 

When the bus pulls up in front of Trost University, I get up and exit the bus, my eyes immediately meeting with Jean’s. He stands up straight and when he sees me, a big smile lights up his whole face and it takes less than 10 seconds for us to be holding each other.

 

“God I missed you,” he breathes into my shoulder.

 

I hug him tighter, for just a second, before we pull away. It’s right then that he leans forward to kiss me, just once, quickly. My cheeks feel hot as I take his hand, our fingers lacing together in the cold wind. Realizing that I don’t have gloves on, he takes the one off of his hand that I’m holding and puts it on my left hand before intertwining our hands together and putting them into his pocket to keep warm.

 

“How’s Angelo?” Jean asks as we trudge our way through the snow-covered walkways.

 

“He’s doing really good now,” I tell him with a smile on my face. “He’s going through rehabilitation to learn how to walk again, and he really likes it. I’m sure that the next time I visit, he’ll be walking everywhere.”

 

Jean laughs a little. “That’s so awesome!”

 

“I, uh, told him. About you.” I look down at my feet as we walk, feeling dumbly shy over this. We’re at the bridge now, and we stop to lean against the railing. “He said he was proud of me. And that he really wants to meet you next time. Maybe... over spring break, if you wanted?”

 

I feel Jean’s fingers squeeze mine in his pocket. Looking up, our eyes meet and he gives me a warm smile. This, I decide, is my favorite smile of his. Small crinkles up by his eyes, which are soft and filled with love and acceptance; the corners of his lips are just slightly upturned. His whole face radiates how happy he is to hear this news, and it makes my stomach flip with butterflies. Because I’ve never seen him look at me like this.

 

Because I never want him to stop looking at me like this.

 

“I’ll come next time,” Jean tells me. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

 

I smile, leaning up just slightly, to catch his lips in a delicate kiss. He smiles into the kiss, which makes my stomach flip around again. As we pull away, slowly and a bit reluctantly, we both are slightly blushing.

 

“Come on,” he says, tugging on my hand so we can start walking again. “It’s cold as fuck out here.”

 

I laugh as we walk the rest of the way to the dormitory building. It’s Petra at the desk, sorting through a mountain of paper files. When she sees us walk in, she smiles and waves us over.

 

“Zoe Hanji stopped by to give this to me to pass to you,” Petra says, handing a white envelope over to me. On the front, my name is written in messy scrawl that I know belongs to my boss.

 

“Thanks, Petra,” I tell her. She waves to us as we head to the elevator, telling us to have a good day.

 

Once we’re in the elevator, I open the envelope, pulling out a small card. The front says, ‘So Happy For You’ and underneath, in smaller font, ‘Thinking of You.’  Flipping it open, I see that everyone at work has signed it with little messages for me to read.

 

 _Marco,_ neat and precise handwriting says, _I’m so happy to hear that your home situation is getting better! Good luck with everything back home, and don’t worry about work. We’ve got your shifts covered until you’re ready to come back! Hoping that things look up for you more and more from here on out! From, Armin_

 

The next one is written in cute, slightly messy handwriting. I can tell it’s from Sasha without even looking at how she signed her name at the bottom.

 

_Marco! We really miss you being here, but I’m soooo happy for you! I can’t wait for you to come back, but no hurry okay? Good luck with your brother! Come visit us soon, though, okay? Love, Sasha_

 

 _Yo, Marco!_ The next one is obviously from Connie. _I heard from Armin about your brother waking up. That’s seriously awesome, man! Hope everything works out. Good luck! Your Bro, Connie_

 

The last is from Zoe. At this point, the elevator dings, signaling that we’re at our floor. As I step off with Jean, I feel tears pricking my eyes and I wipe them away, feeling embarrassed for getting so emotional.

 

_Marco, I’m so very happy to hear about your brother waking up! Take as much time as you need, but don’t be a stranger! If there’s anything that you need, just let me know! I’ll help out the best I can. Congratulations and good luck! From, Zoe Hanji_

 

I sniffle, wiping my eyes again as I tuck the card back into the envelope. Jean kisses the side of my head, his arm around my shoulders as he leads me down the hall to our dorm.

 

“I’ll have to go thank them in a little bit,” I say and he nods, offering to come with me. “Yeah, and we can grab dinner maybe?”

 

“That sounds great, because there’s like, no food in the dorm.”

 

We step into the dorm, and start to take off our boots and coats. Jean hangs my coat up for me as I reach down to untie my boots, kicking one of them off and moving to do the other. It’s right then that I feel a big pair of arms wrap around me and lift me off of the ground, swinging me around in a circle before setting me back on my feet.

 

“Hey, Marco!” Reiner says and I laugh, reaching up to hug him back. “How’s everything going with your brother? You look a lot happier than the last time I saw you!”

 

“Yeah, yeah he’s doing great,” I reply, finally managing to get my other boot off. “Thanks for letting us use the car to get there faster. I really, really appreciate it.”

 

“Oh it was no problem,” Bertholdt says, moving in to give me a hug next, though it’s a lot more timid and over quickly. He smiles at me, though. “I’m glad that your brother woke up. That’s really great, Marco.”

 

“Thanks,” I reply, reaching up to scratch the back of my neck with a light laugh. It’s then that I notice the Hawaiian shirt that Reiner is wearing – it’s orange and button up, with flowers all over it. “I like your shirt, Reiner.”

 

“Hey, thanks, man!” he beams, patting my back (a little too forcefully). “Bertl and I are going to Florida for spring break in a few weeks. So I wanted to get a head start on packing.”

 

“They’ve been talking to me about it the whole week,” Jean tells me with a roll of his eyes. “They’re fucking going to Disney World.”

 

Bertholdt laughs quietly and Reiner grins at me. “Nothing wrong with Disney! Bertl and I are going to get those matching Mickey Mouse ears and everything.”

 

“That’s really cool!” We all move toward the main part of the dorm to sit down, and I tell them the best places to go, since they’ve never been there before. “In Downtown Disney, you have to try deep fried Snickers. They’re the best. Oh, and in Magic Kingdom, try to eat at the Be Our Guest castle during lunch. It’s incredible.”

 

They pull up a map of each park, and I tell them the best rides in case there are long lines and they can’t fit everything in. Bertholdt asks lots of questions about places to eat, while Reiner is all about the biggest and best rides.

 

“Tch,” Jean says from his spot sitting on the arm of the couch.

 

“What are you being so grumpy about?” Reiner asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “Marco, the whole time you were gone he was so moody. He was acting like such a punk, I almost had to smack him upside the head.”

 

“I’m sitting right here!” Jean shouts, pointing to himself just in case Reiner didn’t see him there.

 

“I believe it,” I reply, which makes Jean glare daggers at me. “He’s always moody.”

 

“I am not!”

 

“You sure must be a saint to put up with that so much,” Reiner says, shaking his head a little. He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me directly in the eye and adds, “A wonderful, freckled little saint.”

 

We all laugh, except for Jean who just scoffs. After a minute, Reiner leans forward to playfully punch Jean’s shoulder, and only then does he come around with a small smile.

 

Reiner and Bertholdt put Netflix on, asking if we wanted to watch a movie with them. Even though I have a lot of notes to go over with Jean from all my missed classes, I agree. As Reiner goes through the movie selection and Bertholdt goes to get snacks from his dorm, I realize how grateful to all my friends that I am. Reiner and Bertholdt who have been sort of like parents through my first year of college. Bertholdt, who showed me to my dorm and helped me (unfortunately) get the modeling job for Jean’s art class that allowed us to become friends, and Reiner who has always been good for a laugh and an all around great guy.

 

And Jean, who holds my hand under the blanket, who has always been there.

 

It warms my heart, realizing how wonderful all of my friends are. How they have always been there for me, even when I was broken and sad and confused, and even now, when I am whole and fixed and happy.

 

“Have you guys seen Dirty Dancing?” Reiner asks as Bertholdt rejoins us, with a big family size bag of potato chips and a six pack for us all to share.

 

“No,” Jean says in response, “and that is definitely _not_ what I want to watch.”

 

“Oh, c’mon! It’s a classic!” Reiner says, pressing play, anyway. Jean protests with groans and angry sounds, but I shush him.

 

“It might be good,” I whisper and he sighs.

 

“It’s not like I have a choice, anyway,” he replies, his voice sounding defeated. He reaches over to grab a beer, cracking it open and watch the credits roll on screen as the movie starts. “Fucking drinking beer and watching Dirty Dancing. This is not how I imagined my college years.”

 

“Sshh!” Reiner says, cracking a beer open and handing it to Bertholdt, who smiles at his boyfriend lovingly. “You’re gonna love it.”

 

The movie starts off pretty okay. A rich family goes to a Country Club for the summer and they show dance classes that are offered. Patrick Swayze (who is a true man and whom makes both Reiner and Bertholdt swoon) plays one of the dance instructors but he’s also kind of a bad boy at the same time.

 

Thirty minutes into the movie and Jean is already hooked.

 

“They are so freaking mean to Baby!” he complains, munching on some chips. “God, how are they ever going to fall in love with him being such a dick to her?”

 

“It’s coming,” Bertholdt says with a laugh. “He has a lot of character depth. Just watch.”

 

Jean mumbles a “whatever” under his breath and continues watching intently. It’s a good ten minutes later when the montage of Patrick Swayze teaching Baby how to do the dance routine starts, and ultimately, them falling in love happens soon after. We all laugh when she misses the lift, and does a weird jive dance move instead, and we all end up holding our beer cans to our chests and sighing wistfully when Patrick Swayze says, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.”

 

“Wasn’t that a great movie?” Reiner asks as he turns it off at the end credits.

 

“I really liked it,” I say, turning to look up at Jean.

 

“Yeah, whatever it was okay,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

 

Reiner and Bertholdt shrug and start searching for something else to watch. Jean and I clean up a little before we decide to actually try to go over some notes before getting some sleep. It doesn’t take long, because Jean typed up the notes and printed them off for me. He goes over a few things that were a little difficult, but tells me that everything else is easy to get and that I shouldn’t worry about too much.

 

Around eleven, Reiner and Bertholdt pop their heads in to say goodnight to us.

 

“We should probably get some sleep, too,” I say, watching as Jean yawns.

 

“Nah, I’m not even tired,” he lies, and I laugh, pinching his cheek mid-yawn. “Hey!”

 

“Come on, let’s get ready for bed,” I tell him, getting up from the desk and getting some comfy clothes to change into. We both brush our teeth and wash our faces off before we climb up into Jean’s bed and snuggle under his comforter. We lay facing each other, one of my legs between his and one of his hiked up over my hip; our foreheads touch and I brush my nose against his, which makes him blush a little and let out a small quiet sound.

 

Almost like a giggle?

 

I don’t call him on it, because I know he’s already embarrassed that it came out. But it makes me smile, and I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. His scent fills my senses, and it makes my heart ache, like I’m home sick even though I’m already home, wrapped in his arms. It’s weird to describe that way, but it’s the best feeling in the whole world.

 

“Can I tell you a secret and not, like, get judged?” he whispers, making me open my eyes to look at him through the darkness.

 

“Yeah,” I whisper back, “of course.”

 

“I really, really want to watch Dirty Dancing again.”

 

I snort and burst out laughing, having to pull away because I spit a little bit and it lands on his face. He scowls at me, watching me roll away, burying my face in the pillow to muffle the sound of my laughter. It takes a good minute for me to calm down, and when I finally do, he sighs.

 

“You done yet?” he asks and I bite my lip to keep from laughing again, rolling back over so we can resume our previous position.

 

“Okay, okay,” I whisper, but a small giggle comes out afterward that earns a glare, “I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m feeling pretty judged right now,” he tells me and I laugh again, kissing his nose once to get him to stop being mad.

 

“I’m sorry, okay?” I say, kissing his cheek and then his lips and chin until he laughs, too, pushing me away a little. “Look, next time Reiner and Bertholdt are out, we can watch it again and I won’t tell them.”

 

Jean smiles, wrapping his arms around me tightly and sighing happily into my hair. “Let’s do that,” he says, his voice next to my ear, which makes my body erupt in goosebumps.

 

We’re both quiet again for a long time. I’m close to drifting off when his voice brings me back.

 

“Hey,” he whispers, “before I left the hospital last week, you said there was something you wanted to tell me.”

 

My heart thumps in my chest nervously.

 

“I, um, haha. It really wasn’t anything important,” I lie, reaching up to scratch my head so I look less stiff. “I don’t really remember what I was going to say, anyway.”

 

“Oh come on, you know I don’t believe that,” he replies, pulling away so we can look at each other. I gulp, my stomach somersaulting with anxiety and nerves, and I feel like I could probably throw up. “Out with it, Bodt.”

 

The words that I want to say I feel with every fiber of my being. Three words that I know will cause another shift. Possibly the biggest of them all – more important than turning from strangers to friends, or from friends to lovers. This simple phrase that is the last big leap in our relationship.

 

I close my eyes.

 

“I just wanted to say…” I take a deep breath and open my eyes, mine locked with his. “I wanted to say that I-I love you.”

 

Jean doesn’t respond at first, and for a while, we just stare at each other through the darkness. Finally, when I’m starting to feel really uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t have said it, his arms tighten around me. He leans forward to kiss me gently, as if I’m delicate and fragile, and his hands travel up my body, his fingertips barely brushing against my arms as they make their way up to hold my cheeks.

 

When he deepens the kiss with slow but sure movements of his tongue, I let him take the lead. His fingers thread softly through my hair, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck to gently tilt my head up for easier access. My legs tangled with his pull on him, and he scoots closer without breaking the kiss. Our chests are flush to flush, and I can feel his heartbeat matching in time with mine.

 

He only pulls away when we’re both out of breath. His kisses are soft and deliberate as they move along my jawline, and my toes curl as my eyes flutter closed again.

 

His fingers trail down my chest, to the hem of my shirt. “Is this okay?” he whispers, tugging at my shirt softly, his lips moving against the skin of my throat.

 

“Y-yeah,” I whisper back, trying my hardest to make my breathing even again.

 

He pulls my shirt up, over my head, and lets it fall over the side of the bed. I swallow nervously as his mouth kisses down my throat to my chest. It’s in this moment that he seems a little nervous now, too, because we’ve never really done this before. Just as I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, or make a joke to lighten the mood, his mouth finds one of my nipples.

 

“Ohhhhh my god,” I whisper, because I didn’t realize this was supposed to feel this good. Jean laughs against my skin, causing a slight vibration and it’s enough for me to throw my head back against the pillow. My fingers go to his head, weaving through his hair as his tongue flicks back and forth. Any hope of making my breathing even again evaporates in this moment.

 

I bite my lip to keep from having any accidental moans spill from my lips. Jean’s mouth sucks softly, while his tongue swirls around in a perfect circle. Looking down, our eyes catch for a brief moment. Then it happens.

 

“ _Jean,_ ” I moan quietly, my eyes rolling back into my head as my eyes close and he does this thing where his tongue goes flat against my nipple and I see stars. My jaw clenches and my breath is ragged now, as he smiles against my skin. He pulls away with a soft ‘ _pop_ ’ sound before moving up my body, his fingers traveling my skin slowly. Where he touches me, he leaves flames behind in his wake, and when he kisses me again, my head is spinning.

 

The familiar feeling of heat building up in my lower abdomen starts to build up. I let my hands wander down his body, to his hips, and I carefully guide him so one leg is between mine and mine is between us. His mouth opens against my shoulder as I give us both much needed friction. He moves his hips down against mine, and through the fabric of our loose pajama pants, our erections rub against one another. He groans against my skin hotly before he bites down softly, which causes my hips to move up against his.

 

My fingers rake down his back, and his body shivers above me. I pant in his ear, his chest pressed tightly against mine, as our hips move against each other in sync. I moan his name again, and he moves his head up so our foreheads are touching so he can kiss me again.

 

I’m about to wander below the waistband of his pants when we hear the sound of the toilet flush. Both of us freeze our movements and wait for Reiner or Bertholdt to finish in the bathroom. By the time we hear the sink go off and the door close on their side, our eyes meet and I reach up to brush his long hair out of his eyes.

 

The moment is gone, but I find that I’m not disappointed. His eyes lock with mine, and I watch his for a sign on what to do next. His forehead rests against mine now, and he sighs. I smile, knowing that for tonight, it’s over, and I nuzzle my nose against his. Slowly, he offers me a smile before bowing down to press his lips to my kiss-swollen lips again. As he shifts our positions slightly, I wrap my arms around him and rest my chin on top of his head, and we come down from our high together.

 

In the dark silence, he touches me gently and kisses my skin sensually. His traveling fingers are delicate as they memorize and map my body, connecting the freckles that scatter across my hip bones. I hold him against me as he kisses my shoulder, his hands moving slowly down my back in a way that tickles and gives me goosebumps.

 

We lay like this for a long time, letting our breathing patterns go back to normal and our heartbeats to slow again. In the quiet, with my head out of the fog he put me in, I realize he never actually responded to my words earlier.

 

“Jean?” I whisper, causing him to hum against my skin. “Um… about what I said earlier…”

 

He laughs softly into my shoulder, kissing me where he left his mark just a few minutes ago. “Do you really have to ask?”

 

“Kind of…” I whisper, feeling a little embarrassed.

 

“I love you, too, dork,” he tells me, pulling away so he can look at me. He smiles that warm smile again, and my chest feels tight because my heart is overflowing.

 

We fall asleep tangled together and wrapped around each other.

* * *

Catching up in all my classes turns out to be pretty difficult. Mostly because in two of them, Jean distracts me from taking notes by doodling on the margins of my notebook. He draws a profile of me while I write down notes quickly in Psychology, and when my eyes wander to watch him draw, I miss two whole slides of the notes on the screen.

 

It’s easier in my other classes. Armin helps me catch up in Physics after class in the library. He goes over his notes and explains everything, and we do our homework together. When our heads hurt from all the equations written in our notebooks, we switch to Medical Terminology concepts to work on.

 

My professors are all very kind and give me extra time to write papers.

 

Which is what I’m doing, sitting at my desk in the dorm with my laptop open in front of me, when Jean returns from his art class. He drops all of his art stuff on the other desk and sits down next to me.

 

“What are you writing so furiously?” he asks with a laugh, bopping me on the nose once to gain my attention. I swat his hand away, my fingers returning eagerly to the keyboard to keep typing.

 

“Paper for Physics,” I reply, staring at the screen without blinking. “I’m on a roll.”

 

“Pfft, whatever then,” he says with a shrug, moving to sit at his desk. He opens his sketchbook and grabs a few pencils, setting up his area. He puts his phone on the dock we have to listen to music and presses play. A moment later, and Third Eye Blind is playing and I hear the music mixed with the sound of his pencil sketching on paper.

 

I smile to myself before submerging myself in my paper again. With my textbook open in front of me on the desk beside my laptop, I write quickly. It takes a good four hours to get the first draft done, and it’s around this time that Reiner returns to the dorm with a pizza.

 

“Yo, you guys!” he calls to us, ducking his head in to wave at us. “I got us pizza. Take a break from homework to eat with me.”

 

Jean doesn’t want to, I can tell, because he’s hit a streak. I crack my knuckles as I stand, stretching all of my limbs out. I feel stiff from sitting in the chair for so long without moving much, and my stomach growls as the glorious smell of pizza fills my nose.

 

“Come on,” I say, tapping Jean’s shoulder. I look down at his sketchbook, seeing that he’s working on a new piece. The whole page is full of doodles of expressions, which he’s been practicing a lot lately. They always turn into me, though, I notice as each pair of eyes with angry eyebrows or surprised eyebrows has freckles underneath.

 

He jumps a little, and looks up at me.

 

“Reiner got pizza,” I tell him with a laugh. “Come on, let’s eat. You can draw some more later.”

 

He smiles and we meet Reiner out in the main part of the dorm. He’s already got a slice in his mouth, sitting on the couch as he scours Netflix for something enjoyable to watch. He decides on Bob’s Burgers, putting it on, and it’s the first time Jean doesn’t complain about the choice of TV show. We all crowd together on the couch, though it feels strangely like there’s too much room without Bertholdt here.

 

“Where’s Bertholdt?” I ask as I finish my first slice.

 

“He’s out late tonight with the athletic club in the gym,” he replies with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “He probably won’t be around for a few days. We’re packing at his dorm tomorrow, so you guys will have the place to yourselves.”

 

Reiner opens his mouth again to let out a probably extremely dirty sentence, but stops when the sound of a phone ringing cuts him off. Jean sighs, digging his iPhone out of his pocket and looking at the screen. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and a moment later, his features rearrange to a deep frown and slight irritation.

 

“Be right back,” he says, setting his pizza back in the box that we’re all using as a plate since we recently ran out of paper plates. He gets up from the couch and walks to our part of the dorm, sitting at his desk. His voice is flat as he says, “Hello?”

 

Reiner and I exchange a look and try to keep watching the show. We hear Jean’s muffled talking through the thin walls, but we can’t make out what he’s really saying. His voice definitely sounds irritated, though.

 

“I’m going to go check on him,” I tell Reiner and he nods. Getting up from the couch, I follow where Jean went a few minutes ago, and perch myself on my desk chair, watching as he rubs his forehead, frustrated.

 

“I really don’t want to. I already have plans for break,” he’s saying into the phone. He pauses to let the other end speak briefly before he groans. “No. I’ve already got plans, I just told you that!”

 

I sit down and wait for the phone call to end patiently.

 

“Yeah, okay, fine,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’ll let you know. Bye.” He hangs up, slamming his phone down on his desk. After a moment, he mutters under his breath, and all I really make out is the word ‘fuck’ is said at least three times.

 

“Hey,” I say, coming up behind him to rest a hand on his back. It’s tense, I notice, as his shoulders are pulled back slightly. “What’s going on?”

 

“My dad just… ugh.”

 

I laugh a little at his word choice. “I don’t really know how to help if your dad is just being ‘ugh.’”

 

Jean looks at me and smiles a little with a roll of his eyes. “He just wanted me to come home for spring break. When I said I already had plans, because we already sort of started talking about being at your house to spend time with Angelo, he said that my sister is coming home that week.”

 

“Your sister lives really far away, doesn’t she?” I ask, scratching my head and messing up my hair a bit. Jean talks very little about his family, especially his sister, Klaudia. All I really know is that he drew a beautiful sketch of her in her wedding dress, and that he mentioned her living overseas for a period of time.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, letting out exhale. “I would really love to see her, but… I could do without seeing my parents.”

 

“If he called to ask you to come home, maybe that’s him trying to make an effort?” I offer, biting my lip nervously. We never talk about what happened at his house last time. I never bring it up, because I don’t want him to feel like he has to talk to me about it. But I also don’t want to let him regret having this relationship with his parents if I can help it. “I think… that you should go home for a day or two. If things are still rough with your parents, then at least you got to see your sister.”

 

“You think?” he asks, his eyes meeting with mine. He looks unsure, like this could be the worst plan in the world, but like it still does have something to offer.

 

“Yeah, and plus, if things get bad and you really don’t want to be there, you can come to my house early.” I smile reassuringly at him, moving to lean against his desk so I can bump his shoulder with my hip. “I think it would be good for you to try and fix things if you could.”

 

Jean catches one of my hands, pulling it down to lace our fingers together. He doesn’t talk for a few moments, but I don’t mind. Our silences have been comfortable for a long time now.

 

“Would you, maybe…” he trails off nervously, looking up at me through his long hair. “If you want, you could, um, come with me.”

 

“Are you sure?” I ask, watching as he looks back down at our hands. He examines how they look with our fingers spread between each other’s for a long moment, as if memorizing it.

 

“I would feel better if you were with me,” he finally says with a nod of his head. “My head is more clear when you’re around. But I understand if you don’t want to! I mean, with Angelo and everything. I get that.”

 

“Angelo is important, but so are you,” I say quietly, looking down at our intertwined fingers a little shyly. He doesn’t say anything, and I slowly look up at him, biting my lip. His gaze is intense – his amber eyes are watching me, his lips with the beginning of a small smile on them. “I’ll come with you, Jean. Of course.”

 

He finally smiles as he leans down to catch my lips in a sweet kiss that ends all too soon.

 

With Jean, I find that I’m greedy. No matter how many times we’ve kissed, I always feel sad when we have to pull away; and even if we sleep wrapped in each other’s embrace at night, I want to be closer. It’s no different now, as he pulls away and looks at me through his heavy-lidded gaze. I lean forward to press one more small peck to his lips, signaling that this is not over.

 

“Come on, Reiner’s probably worried,” I say and he nods, leaving his phone on his desk as he follows me back out to the couch. Reiner burps loudly as we enter and looks over at us.

 

“Hey, what’s up, Jean?” he asks, looking genuinely concerned as he hands him a slice of pizza.

 

Jean accepts it and sits down on the couch. “Nothing, just my dad wanted to see if I was coming home for break.”

 

Reiner nods his head as if he completely understands, even if he doesn’t really know much about Jean’s family life. “Man, I wish you guys could come to Florida with me and Bertl. It would be awesome to hang out down there. Maybe next year!”

 

I laugh as I take a big bite of my slice. “That would be great! Jean’s never been to Disney World, actually.”

 

“That’s why he’s such a little punk,” Reiner whispers to me, loud enough for Jean to hear. When he scowls, Reiner just laughs loudly and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just kidding, man! You know I love you even if you are moody.”

 

Hearing this, Jean smiles and mumbles a quiet, “Thanks” that Reiner probably doesn’t hear over the sound of another loud burp.

 

We finish the entire pizza off and watch a few more episodes of Bob’s Burgers before Reiner decides to head to bed for the night. Jean and I clean up and get ready for bed before climbing up to my bunk. It creeks as we settle under my blanket, our arms immediately reaching out for each other in the darkness.

 

Jean nuzzles his nose in my neck and sighs contently. “Night, Marco,” he whispers and I feel his eyelashes flick against my skin as his eyes close.

 

“Night, Jean,” I whisper back, a smile spreading across my face as my eyes close, as well. 

* * *

The rest of the week seems to fly by. I start going back to work, and thank them all for the card that they signed for me. Zoe gives me a big hug, rocking me back and forth, as she tells me how happy she is that things are turning around for me. Sasha offers me half of her banana nut muffin and happily talks all about Connie, though she does include questions about Jean. She giggles a lot when we work together, and it makes the shift go by faster.

 

Armin and I study together, randomly shouting out a medical term to catch the other off guard. We always end up laughing at the other, because we get so excited to shout a word that we say it all wrong.

 

On Friday, it’s Armin and I closing the stand together. While I wipe down all the nearby tables, he collects the dishes and washes them quickly. Just as the doors are about to shut for the night, I spot Jean rush in, grinning as he waves to me.

 

“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath as he walks up.

 

“Hi,” I reply, ruffling some snow out of his hair. “What’cha doing up here?”

 

“I figured I would walk you back to the dorms tonight,” he tells me with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Reiner and Bertholdt are staying at Bert’s apartment tonight, so it’s just you and me. What do you want to do?”

 

I finish cleaning the tables as I think about it. “We could get hot chocolate and watch a movie? Or play a game?”

 

“You mean hot marcocoa?” Jean corrects me. I laugh and hit his arm with my sanitizer rag, which he frowns at.

 

He follows me back to the counter as I finish wiping everything down. I ring up two hot chocolate’s and a double chocolate muffin, pay for them, and make Jean carry all of it. Once Armin and I finish and lock up the drawer, we all three start back toward the dorms.

 

“Thanks for letting me walk with you guys,” Armin says as he waves, rushing toward his dorm building. “See you later!”

 

“Bye, Armin!” I call back, waving until his back is facing us as he runs inside.

 

“Now that he’s gone…” Jean slips his hand into mine. I feel myself smiling too much, so I try to bite my lip to make it less obvious. When we get to our dorm building, we let go to hold the doors open for each other.

 

Christa greets us with a warm welcome and smile, telling us to have a good night.

 

We take the elevator to the fourth floor and walk down the hall to our door. Once inside, we strip off our coats, scarves and boots. I set my hot cocoa down on the table to change out of my work clothes and into comfy pajamas for the rest of the night. Jean strips of his jeans, too, and trades them in for a comfortable pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms.

 

Once we’re both in comfy clothes, we get situated with Jean’s comforter on the couch to watch some Netflix. We split the muffin, curling our feet up under the blanket. I lean my back against his chest, while his free arm moves behind me to wrap around my waist. It’s like this that we watch Hercules, as per my choice, and sing along to all the songs obnoxiously.

 

“I must admit,” I say, finishing off what’s left of my muffin, “I’m surprised that you know all the songs. I hadn’t had you pegged for a Disney guy.”

 

Jean scoffs at me. “I watched Disney all the time when I was a kid. The Lion King was my favorite, though.”

 

“Mine, too!” I shout excitedly, having to sit up so I can face him. “Oh, man! I watched that movie so many times that I broke the video tape.”

 

“Are you serious?” Jean laughs at me. “I didn’t watch it _that_ much, but yeah, that was my favorite. I had the fucking set of toys, and I always made Klaudia play with me, but she hated them so she brought her barbies or whatever. And my lions always would attack and kill her people, and she would get so mad at me.”

 

I can’t help but laugh at the image of a small version of Jean playing with toys so aggressively. It reminds me of Angelo, who always terrorized me with his toys, too. Maybe it’s just a younger sibling type of thing, but I can’t help but feel bad for poor Klaudia.

 

“You sound like you were a jerk,” I tell him, poking his stomach, which makes him jump a little.

 

“I was,” he admits, shoving my hands away because my poking is tickling him. “She was mean to me, too, though! She always put make up on me when our parents weren’t home. And her and her friend would use me like their slave. It was awful.”

 

“Oh, you poor thing,” I tease, ruffling his hair which makes him glare at me.

 

“I think you’ll really like my sister,” he murmurs to me now. His eyes look soft now, and he smiles at me. “She’s not the monster she used to be.”

 

“I can’t wait,” I tell him honestly, leaning forward to catch his lips in a sweet kiss.

 

This is always how it happens. One kiss that’s supposed to be sweet and quick, like a reminder that we’re allowed to do it whenever we want, and it’s usually when we pull away from them that things get heated.

 

I can’t help but smile when Jean pulls me forward by the back my neck, connecting our lips together again. When he pulls away slightly to look at me through his eyelashes, I chase after him with my lips. I shift my position, resting one hand on his thigh to steady me and hold me up, as his hands push against my back to pull me closer.

 

His mouth opens to take a breath, and I take this moment to slide my tongue in. He replies with as much energy, tiling his head so our noses brush against one another’s. For a long time, we stay like this, kissing until we’re both out of breath and panting hotly against each other’s mouths. I pull away just slightly, my forehead rested against his, and stare down at Jean lovingly. In this light, I can see the blush scattered across his cheeks, and his eyes are nervous but excited.

 

He just looks so perfect, that I sneak down to kiss him again, pushing him back against the couch as I take the lead.

 

“Jean,” I whisper against his lips, my fingers trailing down to tug at his shirt. He grunts, moving from my lips to place hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of my neck all the way to my collar bone. His hands move to help pull up his shirt, his lips breaking contact with my skin for only a second as he pulls it over his head and throws it across the room.

 

I close my eyes for a minute, a soft sound of pleasure escaping from between my lips as he sucks at the nape of my neck, making his mark on my skin. My mind is foggy in a haze of pure pleasure as I feel my pajama pants rise slightly, arousal starting to churn in my lower stomach.

 

I move my hands down his bare chest, taking my time running them over his nipples. This action rewards me with a quiet moan against my neck, and it sounds perfect to my ears. Leaning down, I place delicate kisses down the center of his chest, letting my fingers rake down his skin until it breaks out in goosebumps.

 

Jean pulls me back up, his mouth hot against mine and his lips swollen from all the kissing. I relax into his touch, and when he starts to pull up my shirt, I help him to pull it over my head. He throws it aside and grins at me, his eyes looking at my body as he licks his lips. All the breath leaves my lungs when he starts to kiss my shoulders, chest and belly button. He pushes me back, so he’s on top and lays me back against the couch.

 

I moan as he pays extra attention to a smattering of freckles along my hip bones, leaning my head back against a pillow that I had been using earlier.

 

“I wanna try something…” he tells me softly, looking up at me as he moves between my knees. “I wanted to, uh, return the favor. For, you know, last week. Is this… okay?”

 

Not trusting my voice, I nod and watch as he slides his fingers down the waistband of my pants, pulling them down to my ankles. I swallow hard several times, watching nervously as he slowly pulls at my boxers, as if trying to tease me.

 

“Y-you seem like you know what you’re doing,” I say quietly as he finally frees me, my boxers falling to my ankles with my pants.

 

“I, uh, did some research,” he replies, the blush on his cheeks deepening.

 

I laugh, all of my nervousness melting away. He playfully slaps my thigh, but he laughs, too.

 

“Shut up!” he says, still laughing as he leans up to cover my mouth with his hand. “You were gone for a whole week, I had to find something to do!”

 

I laugh harder, but the sound is muffled against the palm of his hand. He pulls it away when I finally start to calm down, biting my lip to keep from giggling. He grumbles something that I don’t quite hear and sits back again. I’m worried for a second that maybe I ruined the mood, but he picks right back up where he left by placing a few delicate kisses to my inner thigh, working up and toward my now painfully hard length.

 

My stomach is flipping wildly with butterflies as he drags his lips up my other thigh. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it hitches in the back of my throat, and I gulp. It’s scary and foreign for both of us, but it’s equally thrilling and exciting. My whole body feels hypersensitive to his touches, anticipating more as my stomach curls into knots.

 

I stare at him down the length of my body as he firmly takes hold of my cock, stroking it with soft, experimental gestures. I exhale, long and low, and lean my head back against the arm of the couch, letting my eyes close. A moan escapes my lips as his fingers start to work me faster and harder; I open my eyes to watch him as he slowly takes my tip into his mouth. A second later, everything feels wet and hot and tight around me and I swear, my eyes cross as my head falls back again.

 

“Oh my god,” I whisper, barely able to control my hips from rolling upward. My thighs shake around his head as he shyly lets his tongue explore the tip. When I moan this time, it’s loud and makes the blush on my face ten times worse, even if no one is around to hear it but Jean, who only looks pleased to have heard the sound at all.

 

He moves one hand up to steady my hips, because my whole body is trying to thrust further into his mouth. I move my hands to his hair, running my fingers through it and gripping it as he moves down farther, taking more of me into his wet heat, which earns a loud moan from him that sends vibrations down my length.

 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” I say as he takes me as far into his mouth as he can. He bobs his head up and down, using his hand to pump what he can’t reach; I watch as he hollows his cheeks out, moving up and down freely. His tongue is everywhere and it feels _so good_ that I can’t comprehend anything other than _oh my god_.

 

I feel my stomach tighten as all my muscles tense. Moans of his name are spilling out from my lips like a mantra, but I can’t stop and he doesn’t seem to want me to, anyway.

 

The hand that was holding my hips down to keep me from bucking up moves away. I lift my head to watch as he takes his own dick into his hand and start to fist it rapidly. Seeing him doing that is almost too much, and another loud moan of his name escapes from my lips as my hips finally thrust upward slightly.

 

I almost lose it when he stops for a second to moan my name. His face is flushed as he bobs back up toward the tip, his hand working both of us faster and faster.

 

His tongue moves along the underside and swirls around the tip. My breathing is heavy and loud to my ears, as his eyes look up to meet mine from behind his long hair. The corners of his lips are tilted upward in a smug smirk, proud of how unraveled I have become in front of him.

 

“J-Jean,” I moan out as my hips snap upward again, though he graciously lets me continue to have my way. “I’m getting close, oh god.”

 

His hand moves faster, pumping both of us harder as we get closer and closer to the edge. My hips thrust upward in a small rhythm, and he opens his throat to let me continue this motion while his tongue slides up and presses flat against the tip. My vision is white, my body reacting on its own at this point, as my back arches upward.

 

“I’m gonna – I’m gonna--” I moan out, trying my best to warn him, feeling my entire body give in to the arousal. I feel like I’m on fire, but in a good way.

 

Jean seems to understand what I mean, because a second later, he pulls away, a slight ‘pop!’ sound as his lips release my dick. I sit up slightly, taking hold of my own, our eyes meeting. We kiss again, clumsily, as our hands work us closer and closer. When we come, we moan each other’s name against the other’s lips as it spills out from both of us.

 

His body falls down against mine, and I lay back against the couch because all of my muscles are shaking from the intense orgasm. His heavy breathing matches in time with mine, and I close my eyes, resting my cheek against his forehead as he curls up in my side.

 

“That was…” I breathe out, still trying to regain my composure.

 

“That bad, huh?” he joked with a light laugh.

 

“Holy shit,” is all I can reply with, and he laughs even harder.

 

“If _you’re_ swearing, that must mean I did a fucking fantastic job.” Jean grins triumphantly, pulling away so he can look at me. I shove at his chest, pushing him off of me until he falls off and his the floor. “Ow! Fuck, Marco!”

 

Laughing, I slowly manage to stand up. I pull my boxers and pants back up before helping him up, so he can do the same.

 

“Come on,” I say, taking his hand in mine. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

 

We wash up and brush our teeth for the night, and as we head back to the couch, Jean picks up our shirts. Pulling them on over our heads, we decide to actually finish watching Hercules before retiring for the night.

 

“What part did we, um, stop paying attention at?” I ask as I rewind the movie with the remote. Jean thinks for a minute as he curls back up under the blanket.

 

“I think it was just after the part where he faced down against that dragon with all the heads,” he replies. “I don’t remember much after that part.”

 

I rewind it back to that part, and press play before setting the remote back on the floor. He holds the blanket up so I can move underneath it with him, and we resume our position with him as the big spoon and me leaning back against his chest.

 

As we watch the rest of the movie, I curl closer against him, and his arms around me tighten. It’s during the very last scene that Jean starts to laugh, his chest making me bounce as he does. I turn slightly to look up at him with my eyebrows raised in confusion.

 

“What’s so funny?” I ask as he retracts his arms from me so we can change positions to look at each other and talk.

 

“I was just thinking,” he starts out, “that the last time I saw you naked was in September when you nude modeled for my art class.”

 

Shame and embarrassment light up my face as a new blush moves up the back of my neck. “W-why is that funny?” I’m ready to feel really self-conscious, but he stops laughing as soon as he sees my face.

 

“Oh, it’s just funny how it turned out. Not about you, Marco,” he reassures me, kissing my red cheeks with a smile. The real smile, the one he hardly ever lets others see. “Just like, how crazy is it that we weren’t even friends but like, somehow that made us become friends? And now you’re my boyfriend. Like, it’s just surreal.”

 

“I guess that is kind of weird how that worked out,” I agree, feeling my blush subside a little bit.

 

We’re quiet for a few minutes as the end credits roll by. I turn the TV off and sit down on the couch next to him again, sighing as he engulfs me in his arms and the blanket again, where it’s warm. His cold toes are underneath my butt, which he demanded because he refused to put socks on.

 

“Hey, Marco?” he whispers, his voice close enough to my ear to make me shiver.

 

“Hmm?” I mumble, feeling my eyes get heavy as I pull the blanket up to my chin.

 

“Can I draw you again sometime?”

 

“I-if you really want to,” I reply, feeling strangely shy at the idea. “Sure.”

 

Apparently, Jean meant right this second, because he gets up and pulls me to our side of the dorm and grabs a desk chair to put in the middle of the two beds. He throws his blanket back up on his bed and gets everything all set, grabbing his pencils and sketchbook.

 

“Okay,” he tells me as he finishes getting things all ready, “get naked.”

 

I laugh, despite how tired and drained I feel, and strip off my clothes. I put them neatly on my desk to put back on after he finishes his sketch.

 

As I sit down on the chair, it feels weirdly nostalgic. It’s like this moment is the definite full circle point in our relationship – from roommates to friends to best friends to lovers. All of that started with my accidental nude modeling job for Jean’s art class.

 

“How long will this take?” I ask quietly, careful not to move my body too much.

 

“Not long,” he replies easily, his eyes flitting up to me before moving back to his sketchbook in his hands as his pencil moves quickly. “Like fifteen minutes, maybe?”

 

 _Not long, you say,_ I think as I sit in the cold air of the our dorm room completely naked. I comfort myself with thoughts of being cocooned in the warm blankets that smell like Jean.

 

“You know what?” he says as his pencil moves all across the paper. “I was too embarrassed to draw your dick last time, but I think I’m gonna do it this time.”

 

“Oh my god! Jean!”

 

He laughs, but doesn’t stop drawing. I sit still, trying my best to be patient, even as my skin starts to get really cold and covered in goosebumps. I watch his face as he draws me; his eyebrows pull together in concentration, his lips set in a thin line, pursed as he erases a mistaken mark, and his long hair falling into his face that he has to keep brushing away.

 

“’So serious,’” I say, and he stops to look at me.

 

“Did you just fucking quote Titanic at me, Marco?” he asks, his face completely straight.

 

“I might have,” I tell him, blinking innocently. “Are you almost done? I’m really cold.”

 

He stares at me for another long second before going back to his sketch. It takes another agonizing five minutes before he says he’s done. I get up and grab my clothes, pulling them on and wrapping my arms around myself to warm up faster. He meets me at my desk to show me the sketch, which is full of a million precise pencil marks that somehow, show a picture of me.

 

“Wow,” I say, taking the sketchbook into my hands to look closer. “This is amazing, Jean. I mean, I thought the one from September was great, too, but this… you’ve really improved a lot.”

 

Jean reaches up to rub the back of his next shyly. “Yeah, well… I think it helps that I know you better now, too.”

 

I side eye him after looking at the picture longer, and hand the sketchbook back to him. “You know, I have to admit. I am a little disappointed about the lack of butt freckles.”

 

“Oh my GOD,” he says, shoving me playfully as I laugh.

 

He cleans up quickly, putting his sketchbook and pencils back on his desk and moving the chair back to where it goes. He goes to the bathroom while I climb up into his bed, happily cocooning myself up in his blanket and getting comfortable. I’m half asleep when he finally joins me, tugging the blanket out from under me, causing me to whine as the cold air invades my cocoon.

 

“If you’re sleeping with me then you have to share the blanket,” Jean laughs, getting in next to me and rewrapping us up.

 

We lay facing each other, and his hands find mine in the darkness.

 

“Night, Marco,” he whispers.

 

I mumble something back as I fall deeper and deeper into sleep. His fingers lace together with mine, and I hear him sigh happily.

 

The last thing I remember before I fall asleep is his lips kissing my hair as he whispers my new favorite three words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	20. no one puts baby in the corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuckin fuck shit balls damn yo my brain is an actual fart and i just wrote for 7 hours straight

I don’t even realize that Valentine’s Day is on its way until the day before, February 13, when I wake up to go to my painting class and realize that the blush tones of romantic imagery (i.e. heart-shaped confetti, grossly delightful cherubs, and lovey-dovey banners) have been projectile-vomited all over the hallways of our dorm building.

 

It’s enough to make me sick.

 

“Gross,” I grumble, closing the door after peeking out and leaning up against it. I shove my thumb over my shoulder and tilt my chin in the same direction. “Did you see it out there?”

 

“Yeah, it looks like shit,” Reiner grumbles, chewing on a granola bar as he gathers his homework and textbooks strewn about the living room.

 

I laugh, glad that he’s on the same page as me – but just as I’m about to thank him for his agreement, he scoffs and adds: “I could have done a way better job if I’d designed it myself.”

 

My eyes narrow. “You’ve been watching too much HGTV.”

 

“So what if I have?” he laughs, then takes a step forward and extends his arms. “You wanna fight me?”

 

I almost retort, but I can’t find it in me to dignify this loser with a response. Instead, I shake my head and mutter a “you’re so fucking dumb” under my breath.

 

Reiner lowers his arms and, after a moment of glaring in my direction, his focused expression breaks and he returns to getting his shit together. “Y’know, all joking aside,” he continues, putting the last book in his bag before zipping it shut, “I need your opinion on something. I got a couple things for Bert and – I mean – I know you aren’t the most qualified, seeing as how you’re still single and all. But. It would be appreciated, anyway.”

 

It takes everything in me to not bust out laughing because the poor dude is misled as fuck, as far as my relationship status goes. But after the urge to laugh is quelled, a sudden sense of dread takes over – because Reiner has just sparked a realization in me, a realization I shouldn’t be having the day before Valentine’s Day.

 

I haven’t gotten _anything_ for Marco.

 

And, I mean, if he didn’t get me anything I wouldn’t be butthurt or pissed or anything. I never really liked Valentine’s Day myself, and all of the pathetic Hallmark-holiday nonsense kind of just ruined it for me… but this has absolutely nothing to do with how _Marco_ feels about Valentine’s. And when I think about letting him down with empty hands come tomorrow morning… 

 

I’m sweating; pulling at my collar, I manage a “yeah, sure,” almost forgetting that Reiner had asked me a question, and add a broken “later” before heading out of the dorm and starting toward the studio where my class is held.

 

It doesn’t take long to get there; the studio’s building is one of the closest to our dorms, so really it only takes about eight minutes to walk. Still, in those eight minutes I manage to do more damage to my personal psyche than I ever thought possible. _You’re the fucking worst boyfriend imaginable. Like, first of all, how could someone put up with your shit long enough to make it to Valentine’s Day in the first place, and secondly, you completely take the miracle of point A for grated by being a forgetful douche. Pretty sure ‘not forgetting Valentine’s Day in your first ever serious relationship’ is one of the first guidelines in the book ‘Cute Boyfriends and How Not to Lose Them.’_

 

It’s hard to focus in class. My professor is talking about some upcoming student art show, but all I can think about is how I’m supposed to meet with Marco after this to go to Psychology and I’m not going to get a chance to sneak away and get him anything for Valentine’s. I start to feel sick to my stomach pretty early on in the class, and make an excuse to my professor about the smell oil paint medium giving me a headache and dip out before I’ve even spent twenty minutes on my painting.

 

I’m halfway across campus before I realize I’m headed in the direction of the subway station, arms still full of art supplies like the stupid idiot I am. But I don’t feel like going back to put it all in the dorm again, so I tell myself I’ll just have to suffer through it, carry my shit around for an hour while I figure out something to get Marco, and get back to campus before Psychology at two. I’ve got plenty of time, really.

 

That’s what I’m gonna keep telling myself anyway.

 

I struggle through the spinny thing, trying to get myself, my portfolio, and my art bin all through to the subway entrance. The struggle doesn’t just stop there, though. I struggle to get into the underpass, then to find a spot with a grip, and legroom enough to steady myself.

 

“’Scuse me,” I mutter to the man holding a briefcase to my right. He gives me a hard look, eyeing my arms full of art shit, and I look pointedly off into the distance.

 

The subway takes off, and after a few stops (and a few awkward, embarrassing stumbles) I make it to the heart of Trost and swiftly exit the station. Once I find myself above ground, however, I realize that I don’t know the first place I should be going.

 

 _Maybe you should have been thinking of a game plan on the ride over,_ I muse, but if I’m being honest with myself, the only thing I was worrying about on the subway was how not to look like a total loser in front of all the other passengers. So it’s with a sigh that I start down the block and begin to wander about, looking for shop signs that sound like someplace Marco would shop.

 

My pocket vibrates and I check the time before swiping the screen to view the new text: 11:32. _I need to hurry if I want to make it back in time for Psychology._

 

Still walking (though walking and checking my phone is a bit like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time – near impossible for someone with absolutely zero hand-eye coordination), I pull up the text. It’s from Bertholdt, which is surprising because he doesn’t text much.

 

> **From: Bertholdt**  
>  Hey Jean, if you’re not busy, I kind of need your opinion on something.

 

I groan audibly before hastily typing back:

 

> **To: Bertholdt**  
>  let me guess, it’s about what u got reiner for valentine’s

 

I turn the screen off and shove my phone back in my pocket, continuing on my mission and fueled now by the fact that both of these losers managed to find something for each other on this greeting-card holiday, so I’m sure whatever I find is going to be even better than whatever they planned. Yeah, I have an hour to do it, but whatever. Getting shit done under pressure isn’t _just_ Freddie Mercury’s specialty, after all.

 

The street narrows a bit as I start to venture from the main drag – and I make sure to remind myself that this is a good thing. I don’t want to buy him something from a department store, or someplace huge. It’s gotta be meaningful. Or, some shit like that. I’m the fucking worst at romance, but that’s what everybody always says. Something from the heart.

 

Or, something from the dick. At the end of the block is a little shop, whose name in glowing bright letters reads “Cirilla’s.” There’s an outline of a heart against the glow, and as I get closer, I see that hanging just beneath the sign is a small plaque that reads “Where romance finds fantasy.”

 

My mind goes blank for a moment before my dick screams “hell yeah” and takes control of the rest of my body, leading it in the direction of what appears to be a sex shop.

 

_Oh yeah, Jean. We’re fucking going there. I don’t know what you’re gonna find, but holy shit. Stroll right the fuck in that door and go to town._

 

I start to smile stupidly as I mentally prepare myself for this because I have never even _considered_ a sex shop, let alone gone inside one before. But I figure now’s as good a time as ever to see what all the fuss is about, so before I give in to that part of me that’s a scared little bitch, I fling the door open and walk inside, greeted by the smell of incense and door chimes.

 

The place is smoky and it kind of hurts my eyes, but from what I can see, there are only a couple of other customers in the store. Fuckin’ awesome. Less public humiliation for me. I start toward the back, passing by some dude deciding between a couple of pornos. Eyeing them over his shoulder, I’m able to make out the titles on the covers; in his left hand, “Saturday Night Beaver” and in his right, “Throbbin’ Hood: Prince of Beavers.” Huh. This dude must really like beavers.

 

I shake my head and keep walking blindly toward wherever, bypassing all the women’s lingerie and kinky handcuffs and whips, until I make it to the back where I spot a cardboard cutout of a hunky dude in a pair of Calvin Klein’s leaning back in a risqué position. His eyes smolder at me from across the room. My mind tells me no… but my body. My body’s telling me yes.

 

So I go to him.

 

And he just so happens to be situated in front of a largely gay display of sex toys and other rudimentary lotions and applicators.

 

“Jackpot,” I whisper to myself – and just too soon. Because, as the word leaves my lips, I hear a cough from behind me and come face-to-face with an elderly woman half my size, smiling fondly at me like she just caught a child sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

 

Her crinkled eyes look up at me from behind tortoise shell spectacles and she smiles a little. “Looking for anything in particular?”

 

It’s almost instant, the tension in the pit of my stomach, in my shoulders, in the way my eyeballs nearly pop out of my head. My neck is hot. My cheeks are hot. It’s a bad, awful, nightmarish kind of shock and I am – quite literally – trapped in a corner with no way out.

 

I am Jack’s Sad and Embarrassing Boner.

 

“Uh,” I start to say, my risen shoulders tight as my neck starts to crane down, as if I’m some animal trapped in a cage. But, really, I’m just a teenage kid who was looking for an excuse to step into a sex shop and buy something for his boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

 

“It is the holidays,” she hums, her voice a little ragged probably from years of smoking, and the more she speaks, the more noticeable her Italian accent becomes. “Are you buying for someone?”

 

“Y-Yeah.”

 

_WOW. Stuttering. That’s a good look for you, dumbass._

 

She seems to understand that I’m about as comfortable as a porcupine shoved up the bumhole, so when she brushes past both me and the hunky cardboard cutout (who, upon further inspection, looks like the overly-muscular lovechild of Reiner and Bertholdt – which makes me _extremely_ uncomfortable), she is careful before taking anything off the wall.

 

“How about this?” she asks kindly, offering something to me.

 

I take it in my hands, thrown off by the fact that the front of the box has a giant, realistically-rendered dildo plastered on it. From the gift’s bold white letters, I read the title aloud.

 

“‘Clone-A-Willy Kit,’” my voice shakes. I look up from the box suspiciously at the woman who just sort of shrugs in response. After a brief moment of silence, I take a deep breath and continue. “‘The original; make an exact vibrating rubber copy of any penis’…?” I don’t even believe what I’m fucking reading. “I don’t think this is the kind of gift I had in mind.”

 

“So what _did_ you have in mind?” she pries, obviously only trying to be helpful but making it very difficult for me to keep myself from actually morphing into a human-sized tomato.

 

I hand it back to her and cough into my fist, looking down and away as she starts to place Clone-A-Willy back up onto the shelf. “Um, m-maybe something a little more subtle.”

 

Quickly, I steal a glance at the old woman, and when I do, I see it: the light in her eyes that heats up, igniting at once with a blazing passion. _Is this lady even real?_ She turns on her heel and scours the shelf once more, her eyes scanning and scanning and scanning until…

 

“This,” she smiles softly, extending yet another package out to me. It is a little more subtle – but only just.

 

“Um.” My pointer finger scratches at my temple and I feel myself beginning to sweat because _this is not what I intended._ “I don’t know if what he’s looking for is, uh, ‘a triple-band lycra thong.’”

 

“Not _just_ that,” she says defensively, then steps closer to me in order to motion more specifically to the packaging. “‘A triple-band lycra thong _with zipper._ ’”

 

 _Yes, of course. ‘With zipper.’ Because the zipper makes_ all _the difference._

 

I force the cased thong back into the old woman’s hands. “Yeah, well.”

 

“Alright, alright,” she reasons, “closer, no?”

 

I just shrug. Honestly, the more I stand here in a store full of sex toys and sexy movies and sexual cardboard cutouts, the more I feel like I don’t belong here. I mean, I don’t know the first thing about sex, really, aside from a few Wikipedia articles I perused one day while I was supposed to be working on my painting, as well as a couple pornos on ManHub. Aside from that, though, and from what I’ve practiced with Marco, I don’t know much of anything.

 

So, in the end, that’s what I end up telling the lady, and even though I half-expect her to roll her eyes or laugh or lead me to the door, she doesn’t. Instead, she pats me gently on the back, takes a bottle of something off the shelf, and sticks it in my hands.

 

“‘Astroglide,’” she smiles. “A water-based lubricant. If you leave my shop with anything today, I hope it is this.”

 

I didn’t see anything like this in the porn, but I think lube _was_ mentioned on the Wiki page so I just go with it. I’ll probably have to ask Reiner about it later. _That’ll_ be fuckin’ awkward. Can’t wait.

 

She takes me up to the counter, checks me out and gives me a holiday discount, even though the little bottle of that shit was still overpriced in my opinion – though she makes up for it by sliding a couple of condoms in the bag, free of charge, and it gets me super amped, so with a final wave to the little old woman, I leave the shop with another bag to add to the struggle of carrying art supplies around the bustling city of Trost.

 

However… I get the feeling that lube isn’t – you know – the _only_ thing I should be giving Marco for Valentine’s Day. Like, he deserves something a little more from-the-heart than that. I realize this on my way out of the shop and feel like slam dunking my head into the nearest garbage can. I’m trash. I am actual trash. Groaning, I turn back around and start looking for someplace else.

 

I near the end of the corner and my pocket buzzes again. It takes me a minute to procure the device from its wedged place in my pocket, and to do so, I have to stop walking entirely. When I finally do manage to slide it out and slide it open, I read the notification: another text from Bertl.

 

> **From: Bertholdt**  
>  Uh, it’s not exactly about Valentine’s Day… But it’s okay, I got it figured out, so never mind. Talk to you later!

 

Guess my opinion isn’t as important as I thought. Rude. And, as vague as his text is, I don’t even dignify it with a reply. Clicking the lock button again, I shove my phone back into my pocket and go back about my business.

 

There’s a handful of shops I duck in for a few minutes, all the while receiving strange looks due to the bundle of art supplies strapped to my shoulder and clutched in my arms, as well as the bag with the Cirilla’s logo plastered to the front. I try to ignore them and keep looking for something that screams “Marco needs this” but I don’t find jack shit.

 

By one o’clock and I still haven’t found anything, and I start to get nervous because I have to be back to school soon if I want to make it to Psychology.

 

The more I look around and come up empty-handed, the more I feel like giving up. I rub my forehead with the back of my wrist as I step out of my last shot: a flower shop. I stride past pots labeled forget-me-not and wisteria and back out into the frozen afternoon. Flowers are beautiful, but damn, getting him something like a dozen red roses seems like a cop-out.

 

My cheeks sting. It’s fucking cold as shit and I want to be back in the dorms again, curled up in a blanket burrito with a cup of hot marcocoa or some bullshit like that.

 

With a groan, I start heading back to the subway, hanging my head the whole way. Who would want a loser like me as their valentine, anyway? I can’t come up with anything as far as gifts go, and all I really ended up getting was something sexual I’m not even a hundred percent sure he _wants._

 

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. This could not get any worse.

 

Just as I’m crossing one of the final streets near the station, I happen to glance to my left. It’s more of just a passing thing, and I don’t expect anything of it when I do.

 

So it’s like a ton of bricks that I get slammed with a series of flashbacks.

 

I stop walking. Down the street, covered in snow but still lit up by the glow of the neon lights, is the bowling alley I took Marco before finals week last semester.

 

It’s really strange when nostalgia hits you out of nowhere. You never expect to feel it, but it’s way too strong to pretend you don’t. And it isn’t like you want to forget the things that make you nostalgic, but more so that you wish you could live in those moment forever. Marco and I weren’t even together yet when I took him here. We hadn’t kissed – hell, we hadn’t even held hands. But the feeling of my hand on the small of his back, and that unadulterated smile on his face when I played Hall and Oates on the jukebox are burned in my mind like a song I can’t get out.

 

Slowly, a smile starts to spread on my face.

 

Maybe for Valentine’s Day, I don’t need to get him something like flowers or chocolate… Maybe I just need to give him another one of these memories.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Reiner muses as the two of us find ourselves watching Property Brothers later that night, “flying solo on Valentine’s Day must kind of suck, huh? I mean, don’t get me wrong, being single is kind of freeing, but. You know. You probably won’t be getting laid, or anything.”

 

I don’t say anything, and instead keep sipping the bottled root beer in my hand. Reiner’s been talking to himself for a while now but I don’t mind, really. It’s better than listening to whatever’s happening on TV.

 

“Oh, and hey, man,” Reiner starts again, nudging me on the shoulder with his knuckles, “if it makes you feel better, at least Marco’s single too. You guys could have, like, a bro-day or something.”

 

I laugh out loud, reiterating the phrase ‘bro-day’ and swatting his hand away – but the words I want to speak fall flat in the air and instead of trying to find them, I keep quiet. There have been so many points this evening that could have been deemed “Golden Opportunities to Tell Reiner I’m Not Really Single” but, without Marco’s permission and presence, it doesn’t seem right.

 

“Where is Marco, anyway?” he asks, easily flitting from subject-to-subject the way he has been for the past few hours. “Work?”

 

“Yeah, he’s closing tonight,” I sigh, taking another sip. “And he’s got homework when he gets out… I should probably be working on mine, now.”

 

“Yeah, or else you’re going to be the one loser who flunks out of college because he failed _art._ ”

 

I scoff. “Hey, shut up man. If you ever took a painting class, you’d realize it’s a lot harder than it sounds.”

 

“I’m putting off taking my art credit until I absolutely have to,” Reiner says, leaning over in the recliner he’s seated in and taking his Physics textbook out, followed by a flurry of loose notebook paper and a handful of mechanical pencils. “Allow me to demonstrate why that is.”

 

He flips one of the pages over, first making sure that whatever’s on the other side is of minor importance, and starts working on his masterpiece. It takes less than three minutes before he snatches it up and tosses it at me smugly.

 

It’s a multitude of lines – or, hatches, rather – that depict your typical Microsoft Paint drawing rendered by a five-year-old. There’s a sun in the corner, a stick man standing in a patch of grass, a square house with a chimney, and a tree with leaves that look like a cloud. In the sky, there’s a few curvy v-shaped lines that I’m guessing are birds.

 

When I look back up at him, he’s cheesing from ear to ear. “Pretty great, huh.”

 

The snort that comes out of my nose is answer enough.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Picassi.”

 

“It’s ‘Picasso,’” I roll my eyes.

 

“Whatever. Pretentious art student, much.” He turns back to the television and leans his head back, glugging down his own root beer. “Good thing that’s your major though, huh? You’re, like. An art history guru. The Mr. Miyagi of fine arts.”

 

My cheeks redden and I turn my eyes to the floor. “That metaphor was bad, considering I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck I’m doing enrolled in all these art programs.” There’s a slight pause before I cough into my fist; my voice quiets as I add, “Also, uh, I’m not technically a declared art major, or anything.”

 

“Still undecided?” he asks incredulously. “You’re shitting me.”

 

“I’m a freshman,” I scoff, “I’m allowed to be undecided.”

 

He gives me a blank look. “Dude, I’ve seen your paintings. With your talent, you shouldn’t be undecided.”

 

“I don’t know, man.” My shoulders fall a little as I shrug. I wish this root beer was actual beer; it would be nice to get my mind off the topic Reiner has brought forth, something I’ve been internally struggling with for a long time… especially with the pressure put on by my father. Because I know what he wants from me. I know I’m not supposed to go into studio art. I _know_ this. I’m _supposed_ to be working toward a stable profession: doctor-status, or maybe an attorney or banker or anything desk-job. There’s a long list of shit I should want – in terms of my sexuality, as well – but I don’t. And the longer I put off admitting that I’m not going to be what they want me to be…

 

I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. Not now.

 

“Dude, I know you,” Reiner continues. “You put shit off until the last minute. You have trouble admitting things; as far as all of that goes, you’re one of the dopiest motherfuckers I’ve ever met… But, you know, you’re also… You’re, uh, really great at shit. Like, with that whole art show bullshit – dude, that painting was killer, and you know it. Bertholdt and I both knew you’d get in… You just, I don’t know, gotta do more shit like that – put yourself out there, stop giving a fuck for a second and just do what you know you’re good at. Otherwise, in the long run, you’re going to hate the decision you’re making yourself live with.”

 

And, he’s right; for once, Reiner Braun is actually right, even if I hate to admit it because his speech once again reminds me of the unnatural dad-ly qualities he possesses.

 

It’s this thought that momentarily blinds me of an off-handed comment also made by my roommate – an off-mention, of which I have _no idea_ what he’s talking about.

 

“Wait,” I say, leaning forward, eyebrows furrowing together. “Wait a second. Art show? What the fuck is my painting doing in an _art show_?”

 

Reiner blinks, and a look of ‘oh, shit’ breaks his rocky features.

 

“I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I.”

 

It’s a statement, rather than a rhetorical question – which tips me off that whatever the fuck he’s talking about is a secret. A secret being kept from _me._

 

And just as I open my mouth to speak, the door opens with a soft click, and in strides Bertholdt.

 

Just the person I wanted to kick in the shins.

 

“Hey guys,” he says softly, just as he normally would; he knocks his boots against the rug before bending down to untie them, smiling a little as he does so. “Watching Property Brothers?”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Reiner laughs nervously, bringing one hand up to the back of his warm neck, “just watching Property Brothers. That’s all.”

 

I laugh humorlessly. “Yeah. _Were._ Until Reiner happened to mention that my art got submitted into the student art show.”

 

The way I say it is sort of a test, just to check Bertholdt’s reaction – and, depending on the read on his face, I’ll decide just how mad I’m going to be.

 

His eyeballs go wide and almost instantly, a bead of sweat seems to form on his temple.

 

I laugh once, devoid of any and all humor, and within seconds my blood begins to boil. “You submitted my painting, didn’t you, Bertholdt?”

 

“It’s a huge honor, Jean,” is all he manages to say, but I can tell he’s starting to rethink his actions.

 

I stand up from the couch and slam my glass bottle down on the table so hard that it almost breaks. “You didn’t even ask.” I breathe heavily through my nose, trying to hold back my temper down but failing miserably; the shakiness in my voice is a testament to that. “You know, the prestige of my art in a student show doesn’t mean shit! Did it even cross your mind that, wow, maybe I didn’t _want_ to submit anything? And, what I _really_ want to know, is how you managed to even get your hands on it!”

 

“Simmer down, sporto,” Reiner tries to reason, but there’s no reasoning with the rage coursing through my veins.

 

“No, I won’t ‘simmer down,’” I spit, then redirect my attention back to Bertholdt who stands now with his back up against the door. “What piece was it?”

 

It’s a moment before Bertholdt says anything, but when he does, he seems to have steadied himself. “The one with the flowers, and the deer head taxidermy,” he says, and his voice is even. “Marco said you were proud of that one.”

 

And, all at once, it clicks. The texts from earlier – about how he wanted my opinion on something.

 

“It wasn’t me who wanted to submit it,” Bertholdt sighs in confirmation. “It was Marco.”

 

I fall back on the couch and run my hands through my hair. My father’s words, “Talent will only get you so far,” still ring in my head, simultaneous with that burning feeling of his palm colliding with my cheek. A punishment for being foolish enough to ever thinking any differently.

 

Bertholdt clears his throat and takes an uncertain step forward.

 

“Today was the last call for the art students to send their pieces in to be judged, and Marco texted me about it before I left the dorms. He said you… that you would love to show your work.”

 

The thought of Marco sneaking behind my back, getting my last oil painting to Bertholdt without mentioning anything to me, starts to make me feel nauseas. “Yeah, well.” I shake my head, leaving behind my forgotten root beer, and stand again – making no move to look at either of them as I do so. “I think I’m gonna head to bed early tonight.”

 

I cross the floor to our bedroom and shut the door, peeling off my hoodie and catching wind of the muffled conversation, spoken in hushed tones out in the living room. Reiner and Bertholdt are trying to be quiet, but I can sense the aggravation in their tones. They’re tired of me acting like a piss baby over everything, they’re sick of my attitude, and they’re aggravated by the fact that I can’t be honest with myself.

 

And you know what? I’m sick of myself, too.

 

I take off the rest of my clothes and climb into bed in just my boxers. I’m too lazy to change into pajamas, and I’m too pissed off to care. I lay in the darkness and try to reason with myself, with Marco’s mentality. Maybe he didn’t consider how my father would feel about it. Hell, does it matter? I mean, it’s not like Trost University notifies the families of those involved in the shows that their work was accepted, so there’s really no way he would find out… And, looking past his judgment, maybe Marco thought he was just doing me a favor.

 

 _But Marco was wrong,_ I think, running a hand over my face and pulling the covers up over my head. _He wasn’t doing you a favor – and if he really understood you, he’d know that. Even if your dad never finds out, this doesn’t change anything because… you’re not going to be an artist. Don’t take art seriously. Don’t get your hopes up._

 

I take a shaky breath and let it out slowly.

 

_Talent won’t get you anywhere._

 

I don’t fall asleep because it’s still only nine o’clock and my internal clock usually has me up until at least one. Instead of drifting off, I lie motionless with a pillow clutched in my arms because this twin-size mattress feels like an empty king without Marco lying beside me. And even though I’m fucking mad at him… it doesn’t mean I don’t still miss the feeling of his arms wrapped around me, or his breath on my neck when I wake in the morning.

 

It doesn’t mean I don’t love him.

 

He just wasn’t honest – and, because of his dishonesty, I lie awake and alone, my head in a painful state of tug-of-war with my heart.

 

As the sound of the dorm room door clicks shut, my eyelids flutter open. Low murmurs seep through the crack in the doorframe from out in the living room, and I can hear the sound of Marco trying to keep his voice quiet just before a pair footsteps approaches our room.

 

The door opens and closes quickly.

 

Marco doesn’t greet me. Maybe it’s because I’m rolled over, facing the wall, and he thinks I’m asleep. With irritation, I turn on my other side to face him – and when I meet his eyes, they reflect the moonlight. He knows.

 

And the way his face falls when he sees me leaves my chest a gaping hole.

 

Marco is quiet, but he approaches me slowly and rests his hand on the edge of the bedframe.

 

“I heard you freaked out,” he says softly.

 

He’s so straight and to the point that I barely have time to think, let alone respond. But somehow, I manage, “You should have told me,” before reaching up to run a hand through the front of my hair.

 

“Jean,” Marco starts, setting down his book bag on the table beneath his bunk bed and starting toward the bed again.

 

I avert my eyes, staring off at the door just over his shoulder to avoid looking into his face. My chest tightens and I manage, “I can’t believe you would go behind my back, when I never wanted to be a part of that stupid student art show in the first place.”

 

“Your art deserves to be seen, Jean.”

 

“Who even fucking said I wanted it to be?”

 

He’s silent for a moment before he says anything, and when he does speak again, his voice is quiet, yet stern. I try not to look at his face, but he says it in a way that demands my attention.

 

“You’re being an asshole,” he murmurs; I find that he’s not looking at me as he says it. It’s like he can’t even bear to watch as his words take root in my chest and grow like vines, tangling in my ribcage… and with each passing second, it becomes harder to breathe.

 

“I was trying to help – but apparently I was being selfish, or whatever you might think of me. I suppose it makes me selfish to be proud of you. I’m selfish, too, in wanting you to be proud of yourself… And I’m selfish because I want you to realize, so badly, that you are good at something and you can do what you love if your heart is in it… And, you know, I want to think that it is. You love art – I know you do. So why do you keep stopping yourself?” He looks at me now, and my breath catches. “Why are you holding yourself back?”

 

Words left unspoken hang in the air, thick like storm clouds that crackle with a distant thunder.

 

I can’t think of a goddamn thing to say. My lips won’t move and my head can’t come up with any retaliation.

 

We stay quiet until, with a slight tremor, Marco’s voice comes to bridge the gap.

 

“I think you’re scared,” he says. His words are tentative at first, but the more he speaks, the stronger they become. “But someone I love taught me that fear doesn’t make you weak – it’s only because you’re afraid that you’re strong. Because you have to be.”

 

I close my eyes, and think: _Angelo._

 

But it only takes seconds for Marco to contradict me.

 

“That person was you, Jean,” he says. His out-of-focus eyes look back up at me, dark brown eyes that are burned in the back of my mind like a memory. The kind of memory you’ll never forget as long as you live. The best memory you’ll ever have.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say finally. Angry words I had once wanted to spit at him start to pull from my tongue and fade away. “I don’t want to make him disappointed in me. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

 

He waits for me to come to the final conclusion, and when I do, my eyes feel the pinpricks.

 

With a rueful laugh, I choke out: “I don’t want to disappoint myself.”

 

Marco’s grip on the side of the bed tightens; I can see the whites of his knuckles as he does so, and just before he leans in to kiss me, I see the moonlight’s reflection once again. This time, it’s different though. It’s not just moonlight. It’s pain.

 

His lips are soft and tentative; he has to stand a little on his tiptoes, and I lean across the bedframe to meet him, but after a moment, the hesitation subsides and his lips are firm. Still soft, but now they’re sure. It’s a kiss that’s certain of everything it represents. Like a physical manifestation of what happens in my chest whenever I’m around him. Like pinching your skin when you have to make sure you’re not dreaming. It’s like so many things, and yet, it’s nothing but love. And as fucking corny and terrible as it sounds, that’s the only thing I’m reminded of in that very moment.

 

_Marco loves me._

 

And everything else drifts away.

 

* * *

 

He says it when he thinks I’m asleep – only I’m not. His words ghost in my ears and, with one arm curled around my middle, his hold starts to tighten.

 

“I believe in you,” he breathes. “Even if you don’t.”

 

My eyes stay closed and I keep my breath even, but when I hear him, that knot in my gut begins to untie itself – unraveling with every word until its frayed ends dissipate.

 

And, through the pain and lethargy… I smile.

 

* * *

 

We sleep in like we always do on lazy Friday mornings. We usually let ourselves wake up on our own time, trying to remember the body warmth of the other before the day begins and we slip back into the reserved relationship we’ve been keeping for the past month and a half.

 

However – on this particular morning, it’s the creaking of a door, the turn of its knob, and the heavy, wholesome footsteps creaking on the dorm floorboards that stirs me from my slumber.

 

It takes a moment, but when my wrists reach to rub my eyes and wipe away the sleep, I slowly open my eyelids to what appears to be a head of massive blond hulk standing in our doorframe.

 

“Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw!” Reiner’s booming voice whoops through the chill of our bedroom air. “Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to you, too!”

 

I stop.

 

My tired eyes go wide.

 

Immediately my reaction is to pull away from Marco’s hold, to cover him in my comforter and shove my pillow over his face, but I know that hiding him  now would be such a joke that I can’t even bring myself to try. I catch myself holding my breath, and when I finally let it out, I pull the covers up over my head and roll over – like hiding _myself_ is any better.

 

Marco stirs, but it’s only when Reiner thrusts the door back open and calls Bertholdt into the room to see what the fuck he’s going off about that Marco actually wakes up.

 

“Oh, no,” Marco groans, pulling the covers over his own head to hide beneath the blanket with me. “A month and a half of hard work, thrown out the window.”

 

“The teasing is never going to end,” I sob, my stinky morning breath an awful cloud trapped along with us both under the blanket.

 

Marco’s nose scrunches up and he sticks his tongue out. “Ew, you need to brush your teeth.”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

“Bertholdt!” we hear Reiner cackle from across the room, “you owe me twenty bucks, I called it – I fucking called it! You lose! You get nothing!” He starts to laugh loudly as the sound of another pair of footsteps hesitates just outside the door.

 

“I don’t believe you,” comes the sound of Bertholdt’s voice, muffled by the thick comforter covering Marco and I. His breath seems to catch in his throat when, after a moment, he whispers, “Marco’s bed is empty.”

 

“You’re fucking _right_ it’s empty,” Reiner’s smug-ass voice repeats loudly. There’s another creaking of footsteps, and without any time to defend ourselves, the blanket is ripped away, revealing Marco and I with burning cheeks underneath.

 

“I CALLED IT,” Reiner wheezes.

 

Glancing haphazardly over my shoulder, I catch sight of Bertholdt’s expression – pure disbelief – before I see him fish a crumpled twenty out of his pocket and place it in Reiner’s waiting palm.

 

“Marco,” he says, and when I peek my eyes back to look at Marco, his mortification is palpable. “You, and Jean – how?”

 

He untangles his arms from around my middle and starts to sit up in bed a little. He’s much more decent than I am, wearing just my thin boxers. With a shaky hand, he starts to tug at the collar of his t-shirt.

 

“U-Um, it’s kind of hard to e-explain,” he stutters.

 

I want to curl up under a rock and die.

 

“Aw, look at Little Toupeé,” Reiner coos, “he’s embarrassed! I can’t believe it. After all this time. Jean, level with me – was it the pep talk last night that did it? You didn’t want to be alone on Valentine’s Day? _Finally_ you grew some fucking balls – I’m so proud of you!” He punches me in the shoulder over the edge of the bed and I instantly roll further into Marco’s chest, pinning him against the wall as I try to make it out of Reiner’s reach. Unfortunately for me, he’s not even really a man, and is more like a big, giant muscle with arms; he easily reaches over the edge of the bunk and drags me back to him by my shoulder.

 

“I still don’t believe it,” he laughs, now extending both arms with which to grab and coerce me into the upright position. “You guys just – it was just last night? Or was it before then?”

 

My lips press together. This is _not_ the explanation I envisioned. Not by a fucking _mile._

 

I feel like screaming, but instead I just scoff and look away. “It wasn’t just overnight.” The words sound rushed as they leave my lips, and my flushed cheeks burn hotter. “You boneheads just don’t know how to take a hint.”

 

“There were hints?” Reiner asks, wide-eyed and flabbergasted. “When the fuck did you _ever_ drop a hint? I would have known!”

 

Marco’s eyebrows knit together and he reaches up to press his palm to his forehead. “I’m honestly just feeling so attacked right now.”

 

“Get out of our room!” I lean over the bed and shout them – though I’m looking at Reiner, the main perpetrator, as I do so.

 

Reiner and Bertholdt start to laugh in unison, though they do as they’re told. I hear the big blond say something about a bet to Bertholdt, but it goes over my head as I silently sit upright in bed beside Marco, internally screaming because they know, and now we’re never going to hear the end of it.

 

“Was it even the right time?” I find myself asking aloud.

 

“Who knows,” Marco sighs, “but I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? At least, uh, this way, it was sort of like ripping off a band-aid.”

 

“Quick,” I nod in agreement, but groan soon after. “Only it was painful. Like, really terribly painful. I don’t think I’m going to be able to show my face in this dorm anymore.”

 

Inexplicably, Marco starts to laugh. He nudges my shoulder, leaning his head on top of mine for a moment before he moves to climb out of bed. “Come on, Jean,” he grins, though it’s a little sideways, what with the way his eyebrows are still pulled together in uncertainty. “Let’s just go get some coffee or something. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

 

My eyes light up at his words.

 

_It is, isn’t it?_

 

Just as he’s about to leave the room to freshen himself up with bathroom, I call his name and start to maneuver my way out of bed. He turns on his heel a little as I rush toward him, his eyes a bit surprised as I do so.

 

“Um,” I start, stopping just inches away from him, “H-Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 

He’s still for a beat, but when his expression softens, there’s a knowing look in his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jean,” he replies, much quieter and meaningful-sounding than the way I’d almost spat the words out.

 

“You’re blushing,” he smiles, the tips of his own ears starting to turn the lightest shade of pink before he reaches a hand upward. His fingertips brush the top of my cheek and I avert my eyes.

 

“N-No,” I say, trying to deny the obvious.

 

He giggles – fucking _giggles_ – and, after a long moment of staring and smiling lopsidedly, he swoops down to plant a kiss on the side of my head.

 

My chest is a mess of annoying butterflies that I don’t want to stomp out.

 

“Idiot,” I scoff, and all at once, I reach up to grab either side of his face and pull him downward, catching his lips with mine. “Kiss me.”

 

“I am kissing you,” he says, and I can feel his mouth curve into a smile. His hands contour the nape of my neck, fingertips curling into tufts of tawny hair that I know I need to brush. My heart is jittery and I feel like a big dumb loser for it but I don’t care, not really – because this is the place I feel the most whole, wrapped up in this boy who smells like cinnamon and tastes like sunlight.

 

“I’m going to go get ready,” he says finally, pulling away carefully. I let out an airy groan in protest, but he just laughs and tells me his shower won’t take long.

 

“We could shower together,” I offer as he’s halfway out the door. “It won’t take as long, and – y’know, the whole ‘conserving water’ thing.”

 

He rolls his eyes at me, but I don’t miss the blush on his cheeks as he turns away and shuts the door.

 

The re-realization that it’s Valentine’s Day hits me like a ton of bricks and I wrap my arms around myself, bending my head down and pressing my nose to my forearms. I wait a moment before letting out a huge sigh, and smile the fucking widest grin I’ve ever cheesed.

 

Y’know, Valentine’s Day is still dumb. But maybe… this time around, it won’t that bad.

 

* * *

 

My tune changes around three o’clock when, in the middle of a private shopping trip to the local food mart, Marco gets a text from Reiner about plans for the evening. Big, extravagant, lovey-dovey plans…

 

Plans involving dancing.

 

Instinctively, the words come out of my mouth and I shake my head, scowling. “Hell no. Hell fucking no. No way, no sir.”

 

“Aw, come on, Jean,” Marco whines, nudging me in the shoulder as he grabs a pack of puddings off the shelf and sticks it into my little manly purse (i.e. shopping basket). “It sounds fun. They said it’s, like, a huge thing in the city that couples do every year.”

 

“Yeah? Well if it’s so big, how come I never heard of it?”

 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you don’t know how to have fun.”

 

“Oh, _I_ don’t know how to have fun,” I shout, turning on him in the middle of the aisle. “ _I_ don’t know how to have _fun?_ Who took you bowling, huh? Who went sweater shopping, and on dinner dates to Spanish restaurants whose names I can’t pronounce, and who played cards for four hours straight waiting around in the hospital room?”

 

“Okay, that last one was lame and you know it,” he says, waving me away with his hand as he snatches up a bag of Sun Chips and tosses it in my basket. “How bad can it be? You’re going to regret it if you don’t go, you know.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure I’m going to regret making a fool of myself in front of the whole city.” I brush past him and grab a pack of Red Bull. “I don’t dance; I’ve got two left feet, dude. I’d be the worst dance partner you’ve ever had.”

 

He’s quiet for a minute.

 

“Jean,” he sighs finally, “I don’t ask a lot of you. But you’re testing my patience right now.”

 

I laugh once, devoid of any humor. “I must be a huge piece of shit if _your_ patience is the one being tested.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

We weave through the aisles, making our way back to the front of the store, all the while I’m mulling it over in my head, weighing out the pros and cons of agreeing to this complete sack of bullshit he’s feeding me.

 

 **Pros:** Marco will be there.

 

 **Cons:** My dance skills are… well, nonexistent. Reiner and Bertholdt are going to be there, and Reiner’s going to play that ‘proud father’ card all night long, cooing at us like we’re a couple of infantile boys trying to act like we know what the fuck we’re doing. And he wouldn’t even be wrong, because we literally have no _idea_ what we’re doing. I don’t like dancing. Actually, I don’t like _most_ activities in which socializing is involved. I’m going to be pouty and mopey and lame all night and Marco’s going to get mad when I don’t have fun. Because I won’t.

 

Still. In the back of my mind, there’s an image of that bowling alley’s neon light, of me seeing it as I scoured Trost on foot trying to find Marco something for Valentine’s Day.

 

_It isn’t about flowers or chocolate… It’s about memories like this._

 

I guess when we finally get to the checkout lane, my internal struggle has been lost entirely – though it’s partially due to the silent treatment Marco’s giving me. And it’s after I pay for all of the goods and we’re on our way back to the subway that I crack.

 

“Okaaaaaay, _fine_ , you win,” I say, defeated as I close my eyes and throw my head back. “I’ll fucking go if you want to go, but don’t expect me to be some suave dancer, because that’s the last thing you’re going to get, and furthermore, I–”

 

He cuts me off with a quick peck to the cheek.

 

“Thanks,” he quips simply.

 

And, as we ride back to campus in the comfortable quiet murmur of passengers on the subway, his hand is warm in mine.

 

That’s how I know I’ve made the right decision.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not wearing that.”

 

Reiner glares at me. “You think this is a joke? Huh? This is _funny_ to you? Well, don’t come crying to me when you’re the most underdressed kid there. This is some fancy shit we’re going to. See, ya gotta grasp the concept of ‘formal’ dude. Maybe you could use some pointers. A hoodie and jeans? Really? You look like a bum. This is no convention for bums.”

 

I have no words for this guy, who stands facing me, though he keeps looking over his shoulder in the full-length mirror at his ass – popping it out, making sure they’re just tight enough to show off every goddamn curve underneath the fabric. Finally, when he’s done surveying his butt, his flicks back the tails on his tuxedo jacket and tugs at the ends of his wrist-length white gloves.

 

“You are the biggest joke of a guy I have ever met,” I deadpan.

 

“Take a look in the mirror, pal.”

 

Reiner’s sass-levels are through the roof and I think it’s because he feels like the belle of the ball already. He’s dressed to the nines, wearing a champagne-colored bowtie around his white-collared dress shirt and shiny patent leather shoes.

 

Marco’s in our room changing; when finally I hear the door creak open, I turn around for the big reveal.

 

Emerging as though stepping from the darkness of a stage and into the spotlight, Marco looks like he’s been pulled straight out of a magazine. He’s wearing a well-fitted, navy blue suit; an untied burgundy tie is draped loosely around his neck, and in his lapel pocket peeks a cotton, dual-folded pocket square.

 

“I need your help with the, uh, tie-tying thing,” he stammers, walking across the center room toward where I stand, in the doorway of Reiner’s man cave.

 

“Wow,” I breathe, my vision going hazy – and with no further explanation, my reaction renders Marco flustered.

 

“Too much,” he mutters, starting to take off the tie and loosen his collar, “I knew it was too much–”

 

I cut him off before he can start taking off his jacket. “No, no,” I say hurriedly, “y-you look, um. Well, yeah. You look good. Really good… Great.”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jean. Just call it what it is and tell the boy he looks handsome,” Reiner orders, adjusting his bowtie in the mirror.

 

I scowl back at him, but when I turn back to look at Marco, his posture has straightened – and there’s an expectant look in his eyes, like he’s waiting for me to say it.

 

 _Fuck you, Reiner,_ I feel like snapping, but instead, the thought stains my cheeks bright red. I’m so sick of blushing I could scream.

 

“Uh,” I say, looking up at the corner of the ceiling while playing with the ends of one of my hoodie strings, “you… look… really handsome.”

 

Marco beams.

 

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

 

“Shut up,” I bark back at him through clenched teeth, then hurry out of his room, stride right past Marco, and shut the door of our room behind me as I struggle to figure out what the hell I’m going to wear.

 

I look through my closet, eyeing the three suits I have to choose from – suits I only have in case of an emergency, because Lord knows I don’t wear stuff like this because I _want_ to – and deciding on the brown tweed one. I fling the shirt that looks the least wrinkled out of my dresser drawer and snatch my good black tie off the rung of my bedframe.

 

 _This is stupid,_ I think. _Getting dressed up for some dumb dance social. It’s going to be uncomfortable in every way imaginable and I’m not going to be able to get out of this, even if I faked sick. I’d still get roped in, because my arm is way too easily twisted by one look in those goddamn puppy dog eyes of Marco’s._

 

“Okay,” I announce tiredly, stepping out of the bedroom now in full dress attire, “come here and lemme do your tie.”

 

From Reiner’s bedroom, I see Marco engaged in conversation with Reiner; he’s laughing and Reiner’s big, meaty hand comes down to clamp on his shoulder. Whatever they’re talking about, it appears that Marco’s getting some congratulatory speech and he’s not even mad about it.

 

“Oi, Freckles,” I call again, and at the sound of his nickname, he turns his head to face me.

 

Without hesitation, he starts toward me, leaving Reiner sitting on his bed to meet me at the threshold. “You look really handsome, too, Jean,” he smiles, and with both hands, he flattens the lapel of my jacket.

 

“You need to go iron yourself, homie,” Reiner grunts.

 

Briefly, I turn toward him. “Again, Reiner, with the judgmental commentary – thank you, so much. I always knew I could count on you for a vote of confidence.”

 

“Oh, anytime.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Marco reasons, “come on. Bertholdt’s going to be picking us up soon, so do my tie, alright?”

 

Clearing my head of Reiner’s bullshit is hard, but I try anyway, so with a heavy sigh, I grip each side of Marco’s tie and measure their lengths before starting the process. He stands still through all of it, watching me as my fingers nimbly drape fabric over fabric, until the knot is made and I slide it up to the center of his collar.

 

“Too tight?” I ask.

 

He shakes his head. I pull from my pocket a tie clip, and once I’ve aligned the ends, I clip it to his dress shirt.

 

Inexplicably, I catch myself smiling. “There.”

 

Looking back down at me, Marco smiles back at me as a reflection of my own. His hand starts to reach for mine, but a sudden knock on the door shakes us both out of whatever tender and sappy moment was probably going to occur – and so he turns away and moves to answer it.

 

“I hope you have your dancing shoes on,” Bertholdt says to Marco, a serene contentedness gracing his features as he ducks in through the door. “You sure look spiffy, Marco.”

 

“Ah, me?” he replies, flustered by the sincerity of his compliment. “No way, wait until you see–”

 

“There he is!” Reiner’s voice booms yet again from his room – and out he strides, broad shoulders pushed back with a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “My favorite man.” He grabs Bertholdt by his tie and pulls his neck downward, catching him on the lips before he can refuse.

 

“Lookin’ good, dance partner,” Bertholdt jokes shyly, pulling away and readjusting his tie.

 

Cheekily, Reiner replies, “You can call me Patrick Swayze, Baby – ‘cuz tonight, I’m gonna show you the _time of your life._ ”

 

“Oh, God,” I murmur, just loud enough so that Marco can hear me. “These motherfuckers and their Dirty Dancing. Tonight is just going to be one big allusion, isn’t it?”

 

“Probably,” he agrees with a shrug. “But if it is, that’s good, isn’t it? You really liked Dirty D–”

 

“Shh!” I hiss, finger pressing to my lips as I watch the big gays, making sure they haven’t overheard. I motion to them with a jerk of my thumb and grunt: “They don’t need to know that.”

 

“Well,” Bertholdt says finally, clapping his hands together – hands I now see are gloved, matching Reiner’s silky ones – and grabbing the keys out of his pocket. “Are we all set to go?”

 

I don’t say anything, but Marco nods enthusiastically and Reiner whoops in response, so with one last look around to make sure we have everything – including our I.D.’s as this is an 18+ event – we flick the light off in the dorm room and start to walk down to the trusty old minivan waiting for us in the parking lot across the street.

 

* * *

 

“What was so funny was that I had actually just gone into their room because I still needed Jean’s opinion on that Clone-A-Willy I got you, and in doing so, I actually received the biggest Valentine’s Day surprise ever.”

 

“Really?” Bertholdt laughs. “A bigger surprise than that one Valentine’s Day you caught me with the whipped cream and cherries?”

 

“Stop, please! For the love of God, just end this sexual nightmare!”

 

“ _Jean_.”

 

It’s been like this for the entire duration of the car ride. The drive to the venue takes so long because the streets are packed; cars racing up and down pavements, wall-to-wall traffic, and more pedestrians out walking through snowy streets, the business rivaling that of Christmas Eve and New Year’s. Everything seems to be coated with, in addition to the thick layer of snow, a rose-colored hue, and it’s not poetic and I swear it’s not my eyes. It’s like every shop we pass has a pink glow emitting from inside; every schoolgirl holding the hand of the boy she probably just became boyfriend-girlfriend with has a stain on her cheeks; and the red and pink confetti littering the streets reflects off the rims of the cars as they pass through the chaos.

 

“It’s the next block up,” Bertholdt says finally, cutting Reiner off in the middle of explaining one of their past Valentine’s Day fiascos. “Keep your eyes out for parking, okay?”

 

We all are on the lookout for a place to park, watching for an empty spot on side-streets because it’s the only place you know you’ll be able to park for free – but there are no spots, because everyone and their mother has come out of the woodwork in Trost tonight, so we’re forced to pay an obscene amount of money to park in a shitty lot that, to be honest, is more that a little sketchy.

 

“At least it’s close?” Marco offers, though it sounds more like a question because Reiner’s still peeved in the front seat, lamenting over the Andrew Jackson he lost to overpriced parking, and Marco doesn’t want to make Hunky Muscles feel worse than he already does.

 

We start to head toward the venue, all four of us shivering from the chill carried through the air. It’s not snowing, but it’s the stationary kind of cold that freezes you down to your bones. I tell Marco this, to which he smiles and offers me a pair of extra gloves he has in his pocket. I gratefully accept them and instinctively move to twine my fingers with his.

 

At this, he startles.

 

I glance over at him from the corner of my eye. “Is something wrong?” My words come quiet, because I don’t really want anyone aside from Marco to hear.

 

“N-No,” he blurts, but after a beat, his tension relaxes. “It’s just strange now that, um, the secret’s out. We don’t have to…”

 

His words trail off, but he doesn’t need to finish, not really. I understand. It’s sort of a strange thing, something that we’ve kept so private between just the two of us that’s now out in the open. And… we don’t have to keep hiding it anymore, which partially sucks because of the teasing we’re going to be enduring from Reiner, probably for the rest of the school year.

 

But there’s something really special about holding the hand of the boy you love without worrying about keeping it a secret.

 

“Holy– look at the line!” Reiner says in a state of disbelief, running a gloved hand through his hair as the building comes into view. The line he’s talking about starts at the door, where a group of men accepting entrance fees and allowing attendees in through the door are stationed. It continues from there, wrapping down the street and around the back of the building.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Marco breathes, our footsteps slowing as we stop walking at the end of the line. “This place really is packed.”

 

“We came here last year – didn’t we, Bert? – and it wasn’t even _half_ this packed. I mean, we were expecting a lot of people, but this? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, man. Hope there’s room to dance, y’know?”

 

“If there’s not, I mean, I’m not gonna be heartbroken,” I say, shrugging as my eyes briefly shut.

 

Marco nudges me, and peeking an eye open, he’s shaking his head and frowning. I groan, then mumble something about how I’ll try to have fun, even if I have to force myself. He seems to accept my promise, even if it sounds half-assed, and the smile returns to his lips.

 

We wait in line for a half hour, all of us huddling together for warmth as our breath leaves our bodies in thick steam clouds, drifting upward beneath the venue lights. Of course, when we finally get to the door, I fish my wallet out of my pocket and hand the guy sixty bucks, covering both Marco and myself. The guy kind of gives the four of us a strange look; maybe it’s because we’re all dudes, but if I’m honest with myself, it’s probably how mismatched we seem. Reiner and Bertholdt are dressed to the absolute nines, whereas Marco and I are simply wearing dress suits.

 

I mean really, though, who the hell actually owns a tuxedo besides these two?

 

What seemed a rhetorical question at the door is answered as we walk inside and are greeted by a swarm of men dressed in the same fashion as Reiner and Bertholdt; tuxedos flock to the large, immaculate dance floor where lights flash through the dark lighting; sequins and glitter reflect off the strobes, which are situated on the dresses of every woman in attendance. At the back of the place, upon a large glass-floored plateau, a deejay wearing headphones turns a knob and amplifies the bass thumping loudly through the building. Lining the other three walls is a bar, and bottles are stacked flush against the mirrored paneling behind a wooden countertop. Men and women buzz around, and every face I catch a glimpse of seems to be brightened by that same rosy hue which has enveloped the entire evening like blush.

 

“Wow.” The word slips out of my mouth by accident, but Marco hears me and squeezes my hand. He’s really excited, and one of the purest and most unadulterated forms of happiness is to get to see someone as jazzed as Marco is right now.

 

I take off the gloves and hand them back to Marco, which he sticks in his pocket as we follow closely at the heels of Reiner and Bertholdt.

 

The taller of the two turns his head, looking back at us with a soft smile. His arm is hooked in Reiner’s, their steps in sync with one another’s.

 

“It’ll be fun, I think,” he tells us, only breaking our stares for the briefest of moments, when his gaze flickers down to our hands, fingers still laced through one another’s. He laughs a little, cheeks turning the softest shade of pink. “Just try not to think about what anyone else thinks of your dancing, otherwise you’re going to be miserable.”

 

“That was rude,” I say, trying to keep a straight face but finding myself laughing halfway through. “Bertholdt, that was some fuckin’ salt in the wound right there.”

 

“Just kidding,” he chuckles, then turns back to face the front. Reiner’s leading us all straight for the dance floor, where people swarm and flock like ants at a picnic. My stomach starts to churn as we get closer and closer; in a turn of events worthy of M. Night Shyamalan, Bertholdt isn’t the one sweating. It’s _me._

 

Reiner slips Bertholdt’s arm from its hooked place in his as soon as we’re immersed in the crowd. With wide eyes, Marco and I simply stand and watch, very still amongst the bustling crowd. Reiner takes one of Bertholdt’s hands and extends his arm at full wingspan, pulling at his partner’s fingertips until he graces the blond with a slow spin.

 

And all at once, as if struck by goddamn magic, Reiner and Bertholdt break out into what has to be the most intricately choreographed dance number the world has ever seen. I mean, aside from Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray, these two blow my mind harder than any dance duo ever has. Their steps move in time, shoulder movements and pivots all synchronized, and – fuck – as we stand there watching them, both Marco and I go slack-jawed in amazement and disbelief.

 

“I– they–” I start, but I can’t find the words to say how shocked I am.

 

Marco just shakes his head, because he gets it but he doesn’t understand. “When did they have time to choreograph an entire dance number?”

 

“Was it happening under our roof?” I can’t tear my eyes away. “This whole time, and we had no idea?”

 

Pausing slightly, Marco laughs a little. “I guess we weren’t the only ones hiding something.”

 

I move to face him slightly, my attention shifting from the spectacle that seems to be turning heads. The warmth in my chest spreads until it’s creeping up my neck; Marco looks at me the same way, with softened eyes and knowing smile positioned on his pink lips. My chest lurches and that feeling rises again, the feeling that I want to tear him apart, ruin his stupid mouth with frantic kisses that make those soft lips swollen. But I don’t.

 

Instead, I sigh with finality and slowly lift my hand, extending it to Marco… An offering.

 

I don’t see his reaction, because it is all too quick that he takes me up on the offer and pulls me away from the center of the dance floor. I try to take Bertholdt’s advice and not look around as we move to a more private place to dance, but there’s a whole line of women sitting at the bar on the western side who keep whispering and watching us.

 

Marco notices this and leans his lips close to my ear so I can better hear him, though the action seems intimate and my breath catches in my throat.

 

“Don’t worry about what they’re saying,” he murmurs, pulling me to him as the next song starts playing through the gigantic speakers at the deejay’s podium. “Focus on me, okay?”

 

I nod, but try to laugh it off because I don’t want to look as nervous as I feel. “They’re probably just talking about how hot my dance partner is, anyway.”

 

There’s a look that flashes across his face and I know I’ve turned the tables on him. “Y-Yeah right,” he blurts, and at his own sudden show of nerves, I laugh.

 

“Alright,” I nudge him, “let’s just have some fun, yeah?”

 

“Some fun,” he repeats, a kind smile returning to his eyes. “Okay.”

 

After only a moment’s hesitancy, he pulls me to him and starts to move; I only hope I’m following his motions in time because my feet seem slow and I’m so focused on not stepping on his shoes that I haphazardly stumble into his chest, letting out a grunt of incompetence before straightening out again. I see the way he tries not to laugh, biting down on his lower lip as he takes my hand again and pulls me back to position.

 

“Fuck!” I yelp as the sole of my shoe comes down, landing flat against his toe, and I groan in exasperation at my complete and utter failure. “I told you I’m shit at this, man.”

 

“You’re not that bad,” he offers, though his smile seems sideways.

 

“That was the worst lie I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth,” I sigh. “Thanks anyway, though.”

 

The music slows for a moment, but before it returns with familiar fervency, I catch him winking at me. “Welcome.”

 

_This little shit._

 

We keep trying to dance, toe-to-toe, but I’m awkward and robotic and I probably look like Reiner when he attempted to give Bertholdt a lap dance at Sasha’s party: awful to watch and practically painful in every way.

 

“Okay,” Marco tries again, “just watch my eyes.”

 

“I am!” I shout, but we both know I’m wrong. After a minute, I finally bring my eyes up, slowly moving up his body as they apprehensively leave his shoes. My chin tilts and I meet his gaze, staring down deeply into mine like he was waiting for me.

 

“Just watch me,” he repeats. His voice is so low and his breath is so warm that I wanna rip that suit right off of him and give those ladies at the bar something to talk about right here on the dance floor – but, you know, I still have a shred of decency left, so I don’t. I just follow his instructions and shadow his body with mine, and we move together slowly despite the rhythm of the song and the quick bass line thrumming through our chests.

 

His lids are heavy and my chest is against his, and after a minute, everything else melts away. It’s as though we’re the only ones in the room; my shaky, nervous breathing slows and time slows and the only thing that matters is the way my hand feels in his. They’re watching us – I swear to god, it’s like the room has eyes and its gawking, gaping, shamelessly staring as two nervous teenage boys move in time to the rhythm of the music of the night… But I find that as time goes on, it doesn’t matter so much anymore.

 

“See?” Marco murmurs. “S’not that hard.”

 

I press my forehead to his neck. “Where the hell did you learn to dance?”

 

“Summer camp,” he says without missing a beat, and I feel his chest thrum as he laughs lightly. “I was the guy that all the girls wanted to dance with.”

 

“‘Cuz you’re so cute,” I mumble, as though an explanation is obvious.

 

He laughs again. “It was because I was the only boy who _wanted_ to.”

 

“Of course you were.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Marco pulls away – which confuses me briefly before I feel him tugging my hand up into the air, watching me with bright eyes as though expecting me to comply with what I know he’s trying to instigate.

 

I roll my eyes but do it anyway, because I know it’ll make him happy – I let go of his hand, and by the tips of our twined fingers, I spin around – just once – and fall back against him.

 

“You’re so cute,” he cheeses.

 

I rest my forehead on his shoulder and look away – for obvious reasons, stemming from sheer embarrassment. “Fuck you. I’m not cute.”

 

“Alright, then,” he says, and his hold on my waist tightens. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Lie,” I say, and bury my face deeper. “You’re the worst liar that ever lived, in the whole history of the world, in the history of ever.”

 

“M’not lying,” he mumbles. I can feel his lips in my hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head, and _god damn,_ my legs start to give out. He laughs once, and rests his chin on top of my head before letting go of my hand and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. Our dancing can barely be considered dancing anymore – more like swaying to the music, to our own beat, and we don’t stop.

 

He’s quiet another moment before his words reach my ears again, but when they do, my heart stutters.

 

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” Marco says, his voice just above a whisper.

 

“Marco. Stop it.”

 

He heaves a heavy sigh. Serious. “Sorry… I know that, uh, I’m kind of embarrassing, and it’s probably weird because I say… um. Stuff like that too much.” He pauses, but when his words return, they’re quieter. “I wish I said it more, to be honest.”

 

“N-No, it’s not that,” I snap, but something in my voice gives me away and he pulls back just enough to catch a glimpse of my face. “You’re making me fucking blush, okay?” I finish, sliding a hand over my eyes, attempting desperately to combat the scarlet hue fighting for dominance over every inch of exposed skin. “I look like an idiot.”

 

Marco doesn’t hesitate for a second as he throws his head back and laughs so hard that I swear I see tears in his eyes.

 

“It’s not funny!” I snap, but he doesn’t seem to hear me – or care. Probably the latter. “I look like a fucking schoolgirl.”

 

“You’re worse than a schoolgirl,” he says sardonically.

 

“I’m gonna remember that next time you expect me to suck your dick.” My eyes narrow as the biting words leave my lips.

 

“Jeeeeeean,” he sighs – and the way he calls my name, as though smiling, weakens my defenses so greatly that it isn’t long before I’m spinning him on my own fingers and leading _him_ back to dance. I can’t stay mad at him – even when he does call me a schoolgirl.

 

Across the crowd, Reiner and Bertholdt are still going strong, dancing like their lives were leading up to this very moment. The whooping crowd around them still watches in awe, and our dancing starts to slow as we find ourselves sucked into the spectacle yet again.

 

“Amazing,” Marco grins. “These two never cease to amaze me.”

 

Despite myself, I nod. “They really do.”

 

Everyone is clapping and laughing and standing in amazement as Reiner’s hand glides along Bertholdt’s back, looping around his shoulder and returning to his front; the blond’s leg hitches up around Bertholdt’s waist, and with ease, he points his pivoting toe and lets his lofty partner lead him around the floor.

 

The crowd goes wild. Marco and I are whooping and hollering, pumping our fists in the air and clapping, and it isn’t until I hear a dark voice from behind me that the air sobers. It’s like a punch to the gut.

 

“Look at this shit,” I hear them say, with a tone gruff and cold and accusing. “Fuckin’ queers shouldn’t be allowed to leave their goddamn gay bars.”

 

Their words are accompanied by laughter – not just from one source, but multiple. I can’t help it when I turn my head a little, eyes scanning the crowd until I find the speaker.

 

He’s tall – not as tall as Bertholdt, but from where he stands just ten feet away, he still towers over me and Marco. He has dark hair, blue eyes and a pointed chin, with his arms folded over his chest. His lips are tweaked up at the corners into a smile, but there’s no laughter in his eyes.

 

“Jean,” Marco says, and when I flip back around to face him, my expression gives me away. He knows what I heard – because he heard it, too. “Don’t… please.”

 

My mouth opens a fraction, but nothing comes out.

 

With a sigh, he brings a hand to my shoulder and rests it there, like he’s trying to comfort me. “He’s not worth it.”

 

That’s when I realize: my hands are balled up into fists, and they’re shaking – _I’m_ shaking, and my shoulders tremble with a bottled rage that I can’t control.

 

I want to punch him in the face. I want to make him eat his words. _Why can’t you move?_ I think.

 

“Somebody has to say something,” I tell him simply, but my voice is pained. My lungs start to ache. “He can’t say shit like that and get away with it.”

 

“I know,” Marco says, “I know.”

 

I bring a fist up to my chest and, briefly, my eyes flutter shut. “I’ll be right back.”

 

“No, Jean–”

 

It’s too late now for Marco’s protests, because I’m already turning around and heading straight for this gigantic pile of steaming douchebaggery and no one can stop me. Not even my boyfriend, who stares at me as I head toward the guy with heavy footsteps.

 

I don’t say anything when I reach him. I stare up at him, a perpetual scowl never leaving my face, and I wait.

 

He looks down at me, his cold blue eyes hard like ice.

 

“You got a problem?” he asks, like he already knows.

 

“Actually, I do.”

 

He laughs; beside him, one of his friends looks over, the unfolding scene catching his eye before he nudges the guy to his right – who nudges his girlfriend, who then ushers a crowd of their own friends over. I try not to notice them, but it’s becoming more and more difficult to keep focused when you start to realize you’re greatly outnumbered.

 

I cough into my fist and look back up into his eyes. “Those guys dancing out there are my friends, you know.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” he guy laughs. “You a faggot, too?”

 

My blood boils. I think back to Christmas – where a father ushered his family away from Marco and me, just because we were holding hands. I think about the shit I see on TV, and on the internet, about things that happen to people like Reiner and Bertholdt… to people like Marco.

 

People like me.

 

And an image of my own father flashes in my head, of the look on his face right before he struck me, and I wonder if he’d do the same thing if I came out and told him I like boys.

 

I look at these guys and I see the faces of so many fathers reflected in them – of mothers, too. The rejection of families and societies and friends, all of it is right here in the way these assholes look down at me with their smug faces like they’re better than me because they don’t deviate from the expectations of the small little universe in which we live.

 

Every time I’ve ever felt ashamed, or different, or wrong, all of it surges through me and my head starts to spin.

 

But before I open my mouth to speak, one last image flashes in my mind: it’s of Marco – right when he first starts to wake up, and the sun is coming in through our bedroom window and our legs are tangled under the covers. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the places where I’ve numbered the freckles and committed them to memory.

 

His eyes open and, through a tired daze, he smiles up at me.

 

“Yeah, I am,” I say, staring up at the man unabashedly. As I speak, I take a step forward, and even though I’m afraid, my words are strong. “What you said was really offensive. You can’t just throw words like that around and think that it’s okay, because it’s not. So you better fucking apologize.”

 

“Dude, woah,” he laughs – but he’s not really laughing. He’s not scared of me, either – he’s uncomfortable. Standing in front of his friends, getting called out by some random guy and made to look like an asshole, he’s uncomfortable and it shows. I’m not the only one who notices it; the guy on his right sees the look in my eyes, and flashes his attention back to his friend, like he’s waiting for a response.

 

“Well,” he says after a few tense moments of silence, “what are you gonna do if I don’t? Go cry to your boyfriend?” He starts to build momentum, and as he does, his hands raise and press down on my shoulders, shoving me backward by the strength of his arms. “You shouldn’t even be allowed out in public – it’s fucking disgusting.”

 

As I stumble back, that heat in my bloodstream turns to fire. “Fuck you!” I shout, and with one shaking fist, I bring my arm back and send it forward to collide with his jaw.

 

…Except it doesn’t. There’s a strength behind me, gripping my bicep and jerking it backward. The person behind me holds me back, despite any and all of my struggling attempts to break free, and when I catch a glimpse of who it is, I see that it’s Reiner.

 

“Jean,” he says, his voice stern, “stop fighting.”

 

“This fucking asshole–” I start, but his grip jerks me back yet again.

 

Reiner’s hands grip me so tight I swear my skin will bruise. “There’s a million of guys like this out there, alright? Are you gonna fist fight the world?”

 

I breathe deeply through my nose – especially when the guy laughs in my face again, which in turn triggers the laughter of those around him. My teeth clamp down on my lower lip and almost puncture the skin, but after a moment, my resolve weakens and I realize that Reiner is right.

 

To be honest, he’s right more often than I give him credit for.

 

Reiner’s hands fall from my shoulders, and with one last hard look, I turn around and start to walk away. My nerves are jumping, muscles twitching and head spinning. I can’t fully comprehend the fact that I almost just let my temper get the better of me, and as I bring my wrist to my forehead, I feel the familiar grip of Marco’s hand taking mine.

 

He says something to me, but I don’t hear him. His voice is soft, apologetic. A few feet behind me, Reiner’s voice speaks. There are people watching all of us, but this time, their eyes feel different on my back. I can’t be sure, but… it feels a lot like respect.

 

In response to Reiner, that homophobic dickwad says something else, but I still can’t sort out my own thoughts so it goes through one ear and out the other.

 

The thing I _do_ hear is the loud crunch of skin meeting skin, of knuckles coming in contact with bone. In front of me, Marco gasps.

 

“Reiner!”

 

The shout comes from Bertholdt; I see him dart past me from out of seemingly nowhere, and as I follow him with my gaze, he pushes himself between the two, hands flush with their chests. He says something quickly, sputtering, and as a group of security guards rush over, Bertholdt’s flustered expression and quick words come in a rush. He’s trying to fix it. He’s trying to put a verbal band aid on the situation, but the guy behind him is shouting at Reiner, pointing fingers, and his friends wear the same angry looks on their faces. I watch their eyes; they’re like a pack of hungry wolves, and all they wanna fucking do is rip Reiner apart.

 

“I think they’re kicking them out,” Marco says, and his voice breaks. I watch as the guards clear a path through the gawking crowd standing around with wide eyes. One has a grip on Reiner’s jacket, who drags him brazenly to the entrance. Followed behind them are two more security guards, and at their heels trails Bertholdt. I watch them as they leave, feet planted firmly on the ground until Marco leads me to the door in their wake.

 

“This night wasn’t supposed to end this way,” Marco states. I can hear the hurt in his voice as, through busy, frosted streets, we all head back to the car.

 

“It’s my fault,” I say, shaking my head. I call out to Reiner, who walks arm-in-arm with Bertholdt – whose right glove is stained with what looks like blood, but it’s dark and hard to tell. “Reiner, I’m sorry.”

 

He shrugs. “Don’t be. I’m the one who did it, not you.”

 

“That guy was out-of-line,” Bertholdt agrees. “I don’t know why you hit him, but from where I was standing… he was provoking you. _Both_ of you.”

 

I don’t want to speak, but the words are caught in my throat and I find that I have to say them. “He called us faggots. He said… he said that we shouldn’t be allowed in public.”

 

Reiner snorts. “Grade-A sack of shit, right there.” He pauses, then turns back to us. “And, on top of that, can you believe he had the fucking nerve to insult my tux?”

 

“ _That_ was why you punched him?” I honestly don’t believe it – how miniscule an insult, and how surface-level, that _that_ was the reason the dude got creamed in the face.

 

He laughs a big belly laugh and, as we turn down the street where the parking lot is located, he kicks a pile of snow up into the air. “I was as close as you were to kicking his ass – I almost let you do it, too – but that was the cherry on top, man… Nobody mocks my sexuality _and_ my outfit and gets away with it.”

 

And… I don’t know why, but it makes me laugh. Then Marco laughs, and then Bertholdt, and before I know it, we’re all doubled over at the minivan, struggling to keep it together long enough to so much as open our doors.

 

Even though that guy said some shit that will have me raging for years; even though his friends made us out to be some sort of joke just because of who we are; despite them, and despite everything – and, hell, despite the fact that we got kicked out of a dance club on Valentine’s Day – we can all laugh because we know they’re wrong.

 

And as we all had left the building, as faint and subtle as it was… from inside, I swear I heard the echo of applause.

 

* * *

 

“Jean,” Reiner calls from his room. He’s long since stripped himself of the over-the-top tuxedo and is instead dressed in his matching flannel pajamas – which, I’ve come to find, are usually reserved for special occasions. (I wish I didn’t already know what this occasion is. I _really_ wish I didn’t.)

 

I appear in his doorway to find him hunched over the bottom drawer of his dresser. “Hang on,” he says, holding up a hand, “I forgot to tell you – I got you something for Valentine’s Day.”

 

“Gross,” I wince. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

 

“Oh yeah, you do,” is his reply. “And it’s not fucking gross. It’s important. You’re gonna like it.”

 

I don’t know why I decide to humor him, but I do. I wait for him to find whatever it is that he’s looking for, and when he does, he stands and makes his way over to me.

 

In his hands is a bag, the front of which is printed with a giant red K.

 

Raising an eyebrow at him, I ask incredulously, “You shop at K-Mart? Dude, you’re a granny.”

 

“Wow, that tone of voice _really_ makes me want to give you your present,” he says flatly.

 

Maybe it’s just because I’m sort of curious, but I decide to humor him and hold a hand out. At this, Reiner smirks and plops the bag down into my hand.

 

“Go nuts,” he says – which worries me a little.

 

I open up the top of the bag and reach inside, finding something that looks to be made of cloth. It’s two-toned and baby blue, so before I even pull it out of the bag, I feel weird. But the second I hold it up in front of me, extending my arms and allowing the fabric to fully unfold, is the second I realize that I should have fucking known.

 

“No, you did not,” I state. “You didn’t.”

 

“I did,” he grins. Reiner looks way too proud for his own good.

 

“When the fuck am I going to use an apron?”

 

“ _Whenever._ ”

 

“You’re gross.”

 

“It’s called getting creative, you quiet meme thief.”

 

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

 

There’s a sound behind me, and I don’t have time to hide the fabric in my hands before Marco is there, looking down and over my shoulder at the apron, purchased just for me, courtesy of Actual Sex Maniac, Bara McGee.

 

“What’s going on?” Marco asks, his tone full of genuine confusion.

 

“Just got you a ‘lil somethin’-somethin’ to spice up the bedroom a little bit.”

 

“We don’t _need_ spicing up!” I shout at him, shoving the goddamn apron back in the bag. “There’s hardly anything _to_ spice up! And, anyway, when did you even have time to buy this? You _literally_ just found out about us this morning!”

 

“I got it a long time ago,” he shrugs. “Was savin’ it for when the time was right. And you know what they say – ‘no day but today,’ right?”

 

Marco says something accusatory under his breath, which sounds like him calling Reiner out on quoting Rent, but I ignore it. Instead, I simply throw the bag back at Reiner and shake my head at him, holding both hands up.

 

He looks positively hurt. “You refuse my gift,” is all he says.

 

“I don’t need a sex apron. Sorry Reiner.” And with that, I turn around, stride past Marco, and leave the room with an air of finality that I hope he understands. Bertholdt is sitting in the living room and gives me a look of understanding as I pass.

 

 _Thanks, man,_ I think solemnly. _At least I’m not the only one trapped in Reiner’s weird kinky lifestyle._

 

I head back to my room and shut the door behind me, plopping down into my spinny desk chair and heaving a massive sigh of relief.

 

_I have almost made it through this day, which has seriously tested me from the minute Reiner’s unwarranted wake-up call met my ears until… well, now. I just have to get through the next few hours unscathed and–_

The door opens and in walks Marco, his footsteps quiet and perhaps a little nervous as they come. I open one tired eye at him, head tilted back; he’s upside down, but the expression on his face has never been more clear.

“You took it, didn’t you.”

He sighs. “Jean, it was a gift. It would be rude to give it back.”

“I can’t believe this,” I deadpan. “I’m dating a lunatic. A lunatic who accepts sex aprons as gifts from giant, overbearing blonds and thinks it’s a totally acceptable thing.”

He tosses it on my desk and shakes his head as it lands with a _whumph_ of crinkled plastic. He puts his hands on his hips and, after a moment, lets a long breath blow between his lips.

I take one look at him – my eyes surveying the way his shoulders slump forward a little, the way he closes his eyes and hangs his head with an air of defeat – and I falter.

“You know I’m just kidding, right?” I say, my voice softening. “I know you’re not crazy, you’re just… being you. The nice one. I mean, _one_ of us has to be the nice one, right? And we both know it’s not me.”

He looks up at me and, after a brief pause, lets out an airy laugh. Then he takes one, two, three steps forward, presses his palm to the back of the chair, and takes a cautious seat on my lap.

I wasn’t expecting it, and when he leans against me with an arm draped over my shoulders, I start to stumble over my words so badly that they mostly come out as variations of the word “uh.”

 

“I know tonight didn’t go, um, according to plan,” he says quietly. “And… I know you said it was your fault, but really, I was the one who wanted you to go so badly.” His face falls, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “First, I couldn’t buy you anything for Valentine’s Day because… Angelo’s months of care still have Mom struggling with payments… and, um, then I made you dress up and go to a place you didn’t even want to go, only to have possibly the worst night ever.”

 

Marco turns his head so that he’s facing away from me. I watch him for a moment before lacing my fingers with his.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the way he almost sounds like he’s crying stabs me, right through the chest. “And I understand if you’re mad.”

 

We’re both quiet until I reach a hand upward, fingertips grazing the side of his cheek.

 

“Look at me,” I say softly. “Please.”

 

He turns slowly and he’s not crying, but his eyes are wet and I can feel them on mine, like pinpricks the way they glisten painfully.

 

Without breaking my stare, I say, “I’m not mad at you.”

 

He stops. “Really?”

 

“Marco,” I laugh, but it’s not because it’s funny. It’s not comical or rueful or humorless – it’s understanding. It’s benevolent. “You know why I really went and started that fight tonight?”

 

He’s still. “Why?”

 

“Because,” I say, and I lay my head against his chest, squeezing his hand in mine, “when I heard them talking about Reiner and Bertholdt, I thought of you, and me. Because we’re alike. But… it was the way they called them – you know – like it was wrong. They were passing judgment and, fuck, they don’t even know Reiner or Bertholdt.

 

“…You were the one who always taught me to be myself, above anything else. You’re so… kind, and good, and always – no matter what – you’d never do something unless it was true to yourself. You’d never change for anybody. And you wouldn’t want anyone else to do that, either.”

 

I take a deep breath and force myself to continue.

 

“At the beginning of the school year, I was a lot like them. The minute you walked in the door, I fucking – I judged you, and I didn’t even know you. I was mean to you, but… you never were. You were nice to me. You were my friend… the only friend I’ve ever had. The best friend I could ever hope for. But it’s like, you know, I feel like you think so highly of me when all this time, I’ve been judging myself. For the past six months I’ve been trying to figure out where I stand; why I’m taking these art classes if I know I can’t major in it, knowing that my dad would kill me if I tried to tell him it was what I might want… What I _do_ want.

 

“But you changed everything. You changed _me,_ Marco… Told me this whole time that it was okay not to feel strong all the time – and that being afraid is okay. That even though I’m not anything that anyone ever wanted me to be – it doesn’t matter, because I love these things about myself. I love art. I fucking _love_ art, and painting, and sketching, and no matter how many times I have drawn your goddamn face, I love it.”

 

I’m laughing between words now, but my eyes burn the way Marco’s probably do. He laughs; I feel it in his chest, resonating through me. I also feel the dampening of my shirt as tiny teardrops collect on the collar.

 

“God, don’t cry, please,” I laugh, but I feel it in my own eyes too; I let go of his hand to rub at them with my knuckles.

 

I continue after fixing my face. “Yesterday, I went into the city because I’m a jerk who forgets about Valentine’s Day and still hadn’t gotten you anything,” I tell him honestly. “I must have gone into twenty stores, and I couldn’t find anything. Not flowers, not chocolate – although, uh, I did accidentally end up buying a tube of lube? Um, y’know. It’s whatever.”

 

Marco pulls back and looks at me with raised eyebrows. His cheeks are red, half from crying and half from the fact I just admitted to wanting to do it in the butt. “You’re serious?”

 

“Of course I’m serious,” I say, wiping my face again as I laugh, albeit nervously. “But, uh, that’s not the point… I passed by that bowling alley. The one I took you before finals last semester?” He nods. “Well it reminded me. Y’know. That the things we like the most aren’t really… things. That sounded corny. I’m really sorry.”

 

Marco snorts and shakes his head.

 

“It’s true though,” I breathe. “We had so much fun that day. And… even though tonight ended pretty awful, I mean, that whole part in the middle? That wasn’t that bad. Endings are always the worst part, anyway. Hands down, they’re guaranteed to be the worst every time.”

 

“Oh?” Marco asks. “And why is that?”

 

“Well, because it’s the end,” I say. “There’s nothing else after it. Either way, tonight, we would have left that place and you’d be sad because you didn’t want the night to be over… Instead, it turned out that you were sad because people are assholes.” He sighs.

 

“But think about that middle,” I grin, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “You looked amazing and you got _me_ to dance, which is pretty fucking impressive.”

 

“Jean,” he says softly.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I know I’ve said it before,” he smiles, his voice quiet. “Once. You probably don’t remember. But… even though you sometimes are the most ill-spoken guy I’ve ever known–” my mind flashes to the night I confessed to liking him, and how fucking awful I was at figuring out the right words to say, “–you never fail to cheer me up. Never.”

 

I look up at him, smile, and bring my hand up to the back of his neck, pulling him downward to meet me.

 

“Did I mention that you’re also, like, really cute?” Marco says against my lips.

 

I fight the grin that threatens to peel out on my lips and kiss my dumb, freckled boyfriend until my mouth is numb.

 

It’s Valentine’s Day, and I know that fucking for the first time on Valentine’s Day is the ultimate romantic cliché, but Marco and I don’t. We kiss for a long time, and I leave a hickey on his collarbone just to say I did, but we’re in bed by midnight, just trying to fall asleep to the sound of our roommates vigorously getting it on in the next room.

 

“Mm, Marco,” I murmur as the sound of bed creaking starts to die down.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“In the morning, I think ’m going to officially declare my major… Studio Art.”

 

He breathes, and it’s like a sigh of relief. We fall into a peaceful quiet, with Marco tucked into my arms with his head against my bare chest, and it’s like this that I feel him fall asleep. I bury my nose in his hair and feel that sudden flurry rise again – and I start to wonder if it will never go away. I hope it doesn’t.

 

Just before I pass out, Marco murmurs something in his sleep – probably just a dream, or maybe not. It comes out muffled, but I know I hear him say it and it can’t have just been my imagination.

 

“You’re welcome,” he says. And I swear, in that moment, I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so bad.

 

 _I’ll get you in the morning,_ I think – and, just as I fall asleep, the corners of my lips soften into a smile.

 

* * *

  

I wake up the next morning with the theme of Dirty Dancing stuck in my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiii've had  
> the time of my liiiiife  
> and i've neeeever feeelt this way befooooore
> 
> (this was almost 17k god damn i'm so sorry i didn' t want th i s)


	21. bump n' grind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent three days on the smut.  
> I am a n00b at writing smut.  
> This is my first time ever writing smut.  
> I'm so sorry. c:

“Warburg Apparatus!”

 

“Wait, hang on! I know this, I swear, I do!”

 

I laugh as I continue wiping tables down in front of the coffee stand. Armin stops cleaning the expresso machine as he scratches his head, messing up his blonde hair that he’s pulled back into a half pony tail because it’s so long. He turns to me and his expression changes as the definition suddenly pops into his head.

 

“That’s what they use to measure oxygen levels using tissue, right?” Armin says, turning his blue eyes to me.

 

“Yep, you got it!” I reply cheerily as I finish my last table. “What’s left to clean up before close? Everything is done out here already.”

 

“I just have to finish this last machine,” he replies with a shrug of his shoulders. I hang up my apron and hat in the office, grabbing my coat and pulling it on while Armin finishes up. I wait for him to bundle up and we lock the register drawer and office door before heading out into the cold together.

 

“So what are your plans for Spring break?” he asks with his hands in his pockets.

 

I kick at some ice as we walk, watching as it lands into the snow. “I’m spending my break with Jean. We’re staying at his house, then taking the train back to mine for the last couple of days.”

 

Armin smiles at me, nudging my shoulder a little. “I’m happy for you and Jean,” he tells me in this tone of voice that sounds sincere and wishful. “Jean deserves someone like you to help him move on from the past. Did you know that he and Eren sort of made up?”

 

I glance at Armin for a moment and give him a smile and nod from behind my scarf that’s pulled up to my nose to keep me warm.

 

I told Armin (and Sasha and Connie, who happened to overhear) a few days after Reiner and Bertholdt found out. Armin had been happy for me, and told me that he was so glad for Jean, mostly because of how unhappy he was in high school, but how happy he seemed to be here. Sasha said she’d seen it coming, and Connie had just said he was happy for us.

 

Hearing all of their kind words and happy wishes for us made me wonder why we had decided to really even hide it.

 

“What about you, Armin? Any fun Spring break plans?”

 

Armin’s small nose is red from the cold, and he reaches up to pull his hat over his head a little more before answering. “I’m going to visit my grandpa, I think. Eren is coming with me, and I think Mikasa might, too.”

 

“That sounds nice,” I reply. “I hope you have fun!”

 

Armin thanks me, and we wave as we head our separate ways. He wishes me good luck on our last quiz before break starts, with only one more week of classes left. I wish him the same before I head over the bridge and back to the dormitory building. It’s Petra sitting at the front desk, and she offers me a bright smile and wave as I walk by.

 

I take the elevator to the fourth floor and make my way down the hall toward our dorms. As I enter the dorm, I’m greeted by the sweet scent of hot cocoa.

 

“Hey! How was work?” Reiner asks as I remove my scarf, gloves, coat and boots. He hands me a mug filled with fresh hot cocoa, and I smile in thanks as I take it in my cold hands. The warmth from the mug starts to warm my numb fingertips.

 

“It was okay. Sort of slow tonight.” Reiner nods, sipping his own hot beverage as we walk to the main section with the TV and couch. “Hi, Bertholdt.”

 

Bertholdt looks up from his textbook sprawled across his lap and smiles at me. “Hi, Marco,” he replies, his smile growing as Reiner sits down beside him and offers him a sip of his drink. “You getting ready for break?”

 

“Yeah, just a few more quizzes and I’m home free,” I report happily, leaning against the far wall. “When does your flight leave for Florida?”

 

“On Thursday evening,” Reiner responds as Bertholdt takes a sip of his drink. “We probably will have to say bye to you guys tomorrow. I’m spending the last night over at Bertl’s to make sure we have all of our stuff packed according to his check list.”

 

Bertholdt hands the mug back to Reiner. “Are you and Jean both going to your house to visit your little brother?”

 

Thinking of Angelo makes me smile instantly. His name once made my chest feel tight, worried that he wouldn’t live to see another day. But now, his name fills me with happiness that washes away the months of anxiety.

 

“Yeah, we’ll be spending some time with my family. We’re stopping by to visit Jean’s family, as well.”

 

“Bring that gift I got you guys,” Reiner says, waggling his eyebrows until Bertholdt elbows him in the side. “What! It could come in handy!”

 

I blink a few times, looking away as my face starts to feel hot. “A-anyway, thanks for the hot chocolate! I better go, um, study with Jean now!”

 

I shuffle to our side of the dorm as Reiner laughs loudly, the sound of Bertholdt’s quiet voice chastising following after. When I step into our room, Jean doesn’t notice me yet. He’s got headphones over his ears and his sketchbook open in front of him, his pencil moving in long strokes on the page. I move closer until I’m behind him, and set my hot cocoa down on the desk next to his sketchbook, leaning over him so I can kiss his cheek.

 

Jean startles a little, but smiles when he sees that it’s me.

 

“How was work?” he asks, sliding his headphones off. He leans his head back and reaches a hand up to the back of my neck, pulling me down so he can kiss me once.

 

I pull away just slightly, my lips hovering over his as I smile. “It was good. Armin and I studied the whole time, since it was so slow.”

 

“Good, that means _we_ don’t have to study,” he replies, pulling me down again and kissing me hard. My mind goes foggy as my eyes close and I let him kiss me until I’m dizzy and out of breath. My hands grip the edge of the desk on either side of Jean, trapping him between my arms. My nose brushes against his pointed chin, which has a slight stubble growing in.

 

We pull away only when we’re both in desperate need of a deep breath.

 

“Hey, you guys!” Reiner calls from the couch. “Stop making out and come watch TV with us!”

 

I laugh and Jean scowls. I take his hand and pull him to his feet, pulling him in by the belt loops on his jeans for one more quick kiss. He smiles at me, squeezing my hand as he takes it and we join the other two for a TV night in.

 

We stay up until late watching a marathon of _The Bachelor_ , talking about our plans for break. Reiner and Bertholdt are mostly excited about visiting Disney, though Reiner leaned over to whisper to us that he indeed was packing their mankinis to hit up the beach.

 

“Gross,” Jean murmurs under his breath, and I elbow him in the side.

 

“Maybe next year for break we could all go to Florida together!” Reiner suggests, his smile so big and happy with the idea that I can’t help but smile back and agree.

 

“That would be fun, wouldn’t it, Jean?” I ask, looking over at him. He’s curled into the arm of the couch, his hand holding up his face in a way that almost looks bored (but I know he’s into the show, because he’s been muttering about it for the past two hours).

 

“I guess,” he replies with a shrug.

 

“Great! So next year, the four of us will go to Florida.”

 

Bertholdt smiles from his spot beside me in the middle. “Maybe we could all just take my van and drive down there. It would be a road trip and a vacation.”

 

We talk about this idea for the next hour long episode of _The Bachelor_. The idea of just driving around, through states and exploring whenever and wherever we want. Jean and Reiner fight about the music that we would listen to, while Bertholdt and I discuss the many museums we would pass along the way.

 

As time passes over to midnight, we barely even notice. It’s not until nearly one in the morning that we realize we have class in the morning and should probably get some sleep.

 

We say goodnight as Reiner turns off the TV. Jean and I return to our side and change into our pajamas and climb up into my bed. We cocoon ourselves under my blanket, facing each other as we share my single pillow.

 

“You know,” Jean says softly, bringing me back from my almost-sleep state, “I do really wanna do that. Like a road trip, I mean.”

 

“Me, too,” I whisper back, snuggling closer and nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck. His arms wrap around me, holding me, with his chin rested on top of my head. “I want to travel with you someday.”

 

“Where would we go?” he whispers back. “If it was just you and me?”

 

I hum in thought. “’m not sure. France, maybe?”

 

Jean laughs a little. “Because I’m French?”

 

I nod, feeling a smile take over my tired features. “Yeah, probably. We would see the Eiffel Tower, eat real crepes, drink fancy wine at one of those outdoor places at night… maybe see a symphony play at the theater houses? You know, the really, really old ones.”

 

“We’d get a place that has a balcony, so we could have our morning coffee and people watch,” Jean adds, his voice sounding wishful.

 

“Sounds nice,” I say, closing my eyes again as I imagine this scenario. “Can we… someday?”

 

Jean shifts so he can place a delicate kiss on top of my head, his arms seeming to hold me tighter, just a bit. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

 

Somewhere between talking about our future and France, we fall asleep.

* * *

Jean and I barely make it to our Psychology class the next morning. Even though it doesn’t technically start until 12:15, we don’t get out of bed until 11:45. I’m the first to wake up, because I realize that we’ve slept through _both_ of our alarms, which means not only are we running late for Psychology, but Jean also slept through his painting class.

 

“Jean! Get up!” I shout, springing up and hitting my head on the ceiling. “Ow!”

 

He mumbles something that I don’t understand, and rolls over so his face is buried in my pillow. I rub the back of my head and shove his shoulder until his eyes pop open to give me the stink eye.

 

“We’re going to be late!” I say, climbing down from my bed. “Come on, get up!”

 

Jean groans loudly, protesting. “Just five more minutes.”

 

“No, we overslept by like 6 ‘five more minutes’ so get up!”

 

Finally, my words seem to make sense to him. He opens his phone and practically jumps out of bed, also slamming his head on the ceiling. “FUCK!” he shouts, holding his head with both of his hands. “Fuck what the fuck!”

 

I snort to hide my laughter as I open my wardrobe and pull on a pair of jeans and the first sweater I find, which happens to be my favorite red one that Jean owns the matching one to. I rush to the bathroom as he finally climbs down from my bed to get dressed, both of us too late to get a shower in.

 

I brush my teeth quickly and try to fix my hair at the same time. Jean steps into the bathroom wearing his matching sweater and a denim vest. He eyes me when he sees that I’m also wearing my sweater, but doesn’t say anything as I squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

 

“Here, lemme help,” he says, toothpaste staining the corners of his mouth as his toothbrush dangles from between his lips. He runs his hands through my hair, helping to tame it for me.

 

“Thanks,” I say, reaching up to kiss his cheek after wiping my mouth clean of toothpaste. He smiles and waves me off to finish getting ready.

 

While he finishes in the bathroom, I get both of our bags together with our Psychology notebooks and one of our textbooks. I meet him at the door and we pile on our boots, scarves, hats and coats before rushing out of the dorm. We make it to the room a few minutes late, though the professor seems to be running a little late, as well. We take our seats just as he starts to go over the notes for the lecture.

 

I write the notes quickly, while Jean slouches in his seat next to me, his pencil moving across his page. When the professor gives us a break from writing to show a clip of an experiment, I glance over.

 

Jean’s entire page is full of doodles with only a few lines of notes.

 

When he sees me looking, he turns the page toward me so I can see better. A cartoon-looking version of us where I’m kissing his cheek while he is holding a fist up, like at the ending of _The Breakfast Club_.

 

 _You’re a dork,_ I write on the top of the page, near the drawing. I add a smiley face and heart for good effect.

 

Jean smiles and looks back down at his page, moving on to work on the next doodle. The clip ends and I continue to scrawl down the notes from the lecture, though my eyes keep slipping to look at what Jean’s drawing next.

 

Various doodles of my face, from different angles. More little cartoon versions of us doing dumb things like cooking (I’m holding a plate with a muffin that looks like he took a big bite of from the top), and sitting on the couch in our dorm with that blanket draped over us. He even draws one of us standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

 

“Don’t forget to complete your mid-term exam online,” the professor says as everyone starts to pack up their stuff. “You have until the day before break ends to finish it. We won’t be meeting for a formal lecture on Thursday, so have a good break everyone.”

 

I put my notebook and textbook into my bag and turn to Jean. He’s already pulling his coat on, his notebook tucked under his arm.

 

“Don’t forget to e-mail your painting professor and see what you missed in class,” I say as we head out of the building. We decide to grab some lunch before heading back to the dorm.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively. “We were just supposed to work on our final project. I’m almost done, anyway, so it’s whatever.”

 

I let my hand slide down to hold his, and he laces our fingers together. We walk through the cold together, happy to see the snow has melted away for the most part, though the air still is too cold to be without all of our winter gear. With only a few more days left until March, the possibility of more snow hitting us is likely, though it’s nice to see the grass again.

 

My phone rings from my pocket just as we’re about to step into the pavilion. I pull it out, seeing the home phone number flash across the screen.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Marco!”

 

A smile crosses my lips immediately at the sound of Angelo’s voice on the other end. While we’ve been talking as much as we could, it’s been difficult recently with him being so busy with rehabilitation and me being so busy with school, work and a boyfriend. Usually, when we get to talk, it’s in the evening when he’s getting ready to get some sleep.

 

“Guess what?” Angelo says, his voice excited and eager sounding.

 

“What?” I reply as Jean and I step into the warm pavilion instead of standing outside in the cold.

 

“I got discharged from the hospital this morning!” he practically shouts. “I finished my rehab yesterday, and they did all the final tests. I’m back to normal again so they let me come home finally!”

 

“That’s great, Angelo! I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to take you home,” I say, though I can’t say I’m not excited to hear the news. “Is Mom home with you, then?”

 

“It’s okay!” he tells me immediately. “Yes, she’s home. She took the whole day off to spend with me. And guess what else? She’s making spaghetti for me for dinner! I haven’t had it in so long. The hospital food was so gross, Marco, it tasted like butt.”

 

I laugh. “Tasted like butt?”

 

Jean gives me a weird look, which makes me laugh again.

 

“Well, I mean, what I _imagine_ butt would taste like. Super gross.”

 

He excitedly tells me all about dinner that Mom’s making, and eagerly says that he’s jumping on my bed just to try and irritate me. But I’m so happy to hear that he’s home, and done with all of the rehab program, that it doesn’t bother me one bit.

 

“So you’re coming home in a few days, right?” Angelo asks, his voice sounding out of breath from jumping on my bed for five minutes straight. “Are you bringing Jean, too?”

 

“Yeah, we’re taking the train home on Friday morning,” I reply. Jean offers to grab us lunch from the noodle shop, so I take a seat at a table to wait for him. “We should be back in Jinae around two.”

 

“Good! Mom has Friday off, so we’ll pick you up from the train station!”

 

“Sounds good,” I say, shrugging out of my coat and hanging it on the back of the chair I’m sitting in. “You just have to promise not to embarrass me in front of Jean, or I’ll never forgive you.”

 

“Embarrass you? That’s the least of your worries, Marco.” I can practically hear the devious smirk on Angelo’s face, which makes me roll my eyes. After so many months of worrying for his life, I forgot about what he was really capable of. “Don’t worry, it’s not like he can break up with you while you’re at our house.”

 

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll have to warn him about you, I guess.”

 

“No, no, no! Don’t. It’ll be so much better if he thinks I’m a great kid,” Angelo says. “Come on, Marco. Let me have my fun.”

 

I promise not to warn Jean (though I intend to, at least a _little_ bit), and we hang up with Angelo says he’s about to eat. He excitedly says he can’t wait for Friday, and we hang up just as Jean sits down with two bowls of noodles.

 

“How’s Angelo?” Jean asks as he hands me my noodles and set of chopsticks. I smile gratefully at him, pulling them apart.

 

“He’s doing really good. He was discharged today,” I reply happily, taking a heap between the chopsticks and starting to eat.

 

As usual, Jean slurps his and finishes way before I do. He waits patiently, though, and we talk about our upcoming break. I warn Jean about Angelo, which makes him laugh, though he does promise not to break up with me over break.

 

“I would have the decency to wait until after break,” he jokes, but I still glare at him.

 

When I finish, I take our bowls back up and thank them for the meal. Jean and I decide to brave the cold again to return to our dorm, where we’re free to cuddle and wrap up in the blankets as we study together.

 

Jean’s phone rings as we’re walking over the bridge, the dorm building in our sight. He sighs, digging it out from his pocket, and looks at the screen. Reiner’s name flashes up, along with a picture that he’d sent to me when I was still with Angelo at the hospital, the one featuring him with his Hawaiian shirt and big sunhat, blowing a kiss at the camera.

 

He slides the answer button and puts the phone up to his ear. “What do you want, Reiner?”

 

I hear the sound of his laughter fill the phone before he starts talking. I wait patiently with Jean, who leans up against the railing of the bridge as he listens.

 

“I guess I could grab it for you. Where do you keep it?” Jean pauses, listening again. “Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

 

He hangs up the phone and we start walking again. “What was that about?” I ask curiously. He holds the door open for me as we step into the building, thankful for the heat to warm our red and cold noses up again.

 

“He needs me to bring a towel and his tool bag, which is apparently stashed in his closet,” Jean replies with a shrug of his shoulder. “He didn’t explain why, so I’m not sure.”

 

When we reach the dorm, Jean heads for Reiner’s side of the dorm. I follow, flicking the light on so we can see more clearly. Jean shoves open the wardrobe and looks around along the bottom until he finds a small black bag.

 

“I’m… kind of scared to open this,” he admits, turning to me with a weird look on his face.

 

“Why?”

 

“What if it’s like, a bunch of weird kinky shit?” Jean starts, his frown deepening with worry as his eyes move back to the black bag in his hands. “I don’t think I could look him or Bertholdt in the eye if I see handcuffs or chains or something.”

 

I laugh, taking the bag and unzipping it. I gasp and look at him with wide eyes. “Oh god,” I say.

 

“Shit, I was right, wasn’t I?” Jean throws his head back with a groan, reaching blindly for the bag in my hands so he can put it back without looking inside.

 

“Jean,” I laugh, pulling out a wrench and putting it into his hands. He looks down and sighs with relief, then gives me a hard look. “I was just joking.”

 

“You can be such a shit sometimes, Marco,” Jean says, but he’s smiling now.

 

We take the tool bag and a few hand towels and head out of the dorm. Jean texts Reiner to let him know that we’re on our way and then takes my hand in his as we return to the cold outside. We walk across the soggy grass toward the nearby parking garage and take the stairs up two flights.

 

“Yo, Reiner!” Jean calls when we see him standing in front of Bertholdt’s van. Bertholdt is there, too, sitting in the driver seat with the door open so he and Reiner can still talk. The hood is open, and Reiner’s hands are stained with what looks like oil. “I didn’t know you worked on cars.”

 

Reiner smiles warmly as he accepts the towels and the tool bag. “Yeah, I used to work in a shop,” he replies, his eyes moving to look at his boyfriend. “Reminds me of the old days.”

 

“Old days?” I ask, watching as Bertholdt smiles and comes around to stand with us.

 

“He fixed this van up for me when I first got it,” Bertholdt explains, handing Reiner one of the tools from the bag when he asks for it. “So he always does the oil changes and stuff for it, too.”

 

Reiner pulls on something that makes a loud sound. Jean and I exchange a glance, wondering if that was supposed to happen or not, and Reiner pulls back. He takes one of the towels and wipes his hands on it, pulling out the dipstick and wiping it clean before dunking it back in and pulling it out one more time. He squints down at the stick and puts it back in.

 

“All good to go,” Reiner announces, shutting the hood. Bertholdt gets his keys and shuts the door, locking the car. “Now we’re officially all set for Spring break.”

 

“You guys staying at Bertl’s tonight?” Jean asks as the four of us head out of the parking garage.

 

“Eager to be alone with your boyfriend, eh?” Reiner says, nudging Jean with his shoulder. Jean’s cheeks immediately turn red as he shoves Reiner back, grumbling something under his breath that just makes him laugh loudly.

 

I turn to Bertholdt and ask him about Disney. “Did you decide what park you’re going to start with?”

 

“Magic Kingdom, since it’s kind of the main one. Plus, Reiner really wants to get those matching Mickey ear hats…” Bertholdt smiles a bit, his cheeks slightly pink with a fresh blush.

 

“We’ll send you guys plenty of pictures!” Reiner promises, slowing his walk so he can join Bertholdt and hold his hand. They smile at each other as we walk, and seeing them like this feels different somehow. While I know about their lives inside the dorms, it’s rare to see them just simply holding each other hands walking together. Bertholdt’s body sort of leans into Reiner while Reiner laces their fingers together, looking down at his boyfriend with a bright smile.

 

Jean rejoins my side and the four of us walk back to the dorm.

 

Reiner grabs his luggage from his room and puts the tool bag back into his wardrobe. He turns to Jean and I and opens his arms, hugging me tightly. I return his hug, telling him to have a good time.

 

“C’mere Jean,” Reiner says, his arms open again.

 

“Fuck no,” Jean says, turning his head away. “Just go have a good time at Disney, you big bara goof. I’m not hugging you.”

 

“Don’t be such a punk ass!” Reiner snaps before wrapping his arms around a very unwilling Jean. He takes this moment to lift Jean from the ground, swaying back to forth in his tight hug, while Jean struggles, shouting protests of “put me down!”

 

“Ahh, I’m gonna miss you, too, Jean!” Reiner laughs, setting him down and slapping his shoulder. “Be good to your boyfriend. He’s a saint to be able to handle your sour ass all the time.”

 

Jean grumbles something under his breath, but when Reiner turns away to look at Bertholdt, I catch him smile.

 

We walk them to the door, telling them to have a good time. Reiner reassures us that they will, and Bertholdt waves as they walk down the hall to the elevator together. We watch them leave, knowing that we’ll miss them after a week. Reiner carries his suitcase, while his free hand moves to hold Bertholdt’s; Bertholdt leans into him and Reiner gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

 

Then they step into the elevator and the doors close, and they’re gone.

* * *

The dorm feels empty with just the two of us, knowing that Reiner and Bertholdt won’t be back for a week.

 

Jean and I busy ourselves watching TV, but the couch feels weirdly too big. Jean sits against the arm, where he always does, and I stretch out to make it feel less big. I lay my head on his lap and let my feet dangle over the other arm of the couch, and I smile up at him.

 

“You look sad,” I tell him.

 

He runs his fingers through my hair and smiles down at me, the light from the TV casting a strange shadow over his face. “Nah, just tired, I think. I’m ready for break.”

 

I nod, closing my eyes as his fingers continue to work through my hair. We stay like this for a long time, and I almost fall asleep a few times. It’s peaceful, just the two us, free to do what we want and not worry about someone walking in. I feel my breathing turn even as I slowly open my eyes a bit to look up at Jean.

 

He’s looking down at me with a soft smile on his lips. The smile that I love the most, the one that spreads over all of his features and makes them look warm and full of love.

 

“What?” I ask, reaching up to take one of his hands to lace our fingers together.

 

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning down to kiss my nose once. “You’re just cute. I thought you were asleep.”

 

I smile and shake my head a bit. “Almost did fall asleep, though.”

 

Slowly, I sit up and stretch my arms out over my head, letting my back crack and realign. Jean’s nose scrunches up at the sound, but lets his legs stretch out a bit, too. He checks his phone and sighs, turning the TV off and the small lamp by the couch on for a little light.

 

“It’s almost midnight,” he says, glancing over at me. “You wanna get some sleep or stay up a little longer?”

 

Feeling strangely nervous in the pit of my stomach, I move so that I’m sitting on his lap. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his eyes flitting from mine to my lips, and his hands clasp together against my back. With nervous fingers, I touch his cheeks and pull his face up to kiss him.

 

I kiss him slowly and lovingly. His mouth moves against mine perfectly, his head tilting slightly as our noses brush against each others. My hands trail down to his chest, resting flat, and I can feel his heartbeat moving in time with mine.

 

My kisses trail along his jawline, where I stop to nip at his ear. Jean’s breathing starts to turn more rapid as he lets out a small moan. His hands that are clasped behind my back tighten, pulling me closer as my kisses move south down his neck and throat. I pull back slightly, admiring how cute his face is when his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open as he breathes.

 

“Jean…” As I say his name, his eyes open lazily to look at me. “D-do you… want to?”

 

He seems to understand as my fingers take hold of the hem of his shirt.

 

“Y-yeah,” he replies, probably just as nervous as I am. “Yeah, if you’re ready.”

 

“I am if you are,” I say, which makes him smile. His hands move up, one taking the back of my neck, and the other pulling on my shirt as he reconnects our lips. We kiss hungrily, his tongue easily maneuvering within my mouth; we kiss desperately, letting our breathing come short against each other’s skin.

 

I pull his shirt up, breaking our kiss to get it over his head. He takes this moment to do the same for me, removing my sweater and tossing it aside. I let my hands roam over his exposed skin before I lean down to kiss every inch of his skin. His fingers work on untying my pajama bottoms, which have already started to feel tight as arousal churns in the pit of my stomach.

 

Slowly, I move off of his lap so he can remove my pants. He leans forward on the couch, his hands moving to the small of my back so he can pull me toward him. He presses his lips against the smattering of freckles on my hip bones and I close my eyes, letting out a breathy moan as my fingers run through his hair. Jean drags his lips downward, over my growing erection in my boxers, and lets his tongue move along the tip.

 

“J-Jean,” I whimper, his lips teasing me through the fabric, threatening to rut against his flushed face.

 

He hooks one finger in the waistband of my boxers, dragging them down painfully slowly as his lips make sure to kiss my skin that is now exposed. My boxers finally drop to the floor with my pants, and Jean’s mouth moves to my dick, taking it in one swift motion; he gives one good suck before he pulls off completely.

 

“Fuck,” I moan, kicking my pants and boxers off from around my ankles. I pull him up, kissing him desperately as I remove his pants and boxers, my fingers delicately making sure to give his nipples a good teasing tweak. He moans into my mouth and ruts his hips against mine, seeking friction.

 

I reach a hand between us, taking hold of myself and moving along with his hips. Jean’s head falls on my shoulder, his breath hot on my skin as our now fully hard dicks rub against each other in perfect time.

 

“Holy shit,” he whispers, his fingers gripping tightly at my skin in a way that I know will leave bruises. I moan against his neck, our hips moving faster now.

 

“Gotta get the lube,” Jean says against my mouth. I move with him, not wanting to lose the feeling of his skin against mine, and end up with my back pressed against the wall. “J-just one sec,” he promises, pulling away to rush to his desk to get what we need.

 

I groan, already missing the warmth his body had given me.

 

It takes him a minute before he runs out with several packages of condoms and a bottle of lube that he got at that sex shop while trying to find my Valentine’s day present. I glance at all of the condoms and raise my eyebrow.

 

“I don’t know,” Jean replies with a shrug. “I’m just making sure we’re prepared, okay?”

 

I laugh, pulling him in for a kiss. He catches himself with one hand against the wall, the other at his side holding all the condoms and the lube. As my tongue explores his mouth, I let my hands run down his back, and his body shivers at my touch. He groans, rutting his hips against mine teasingly before pulling away with a really hot smirk on his face.

 

“Wh-what?” I ask, stuttering as his hips snap against mine.

 

“You’re just really fucking hot right now,” he replies, the smirk on his face only seeming to get wider.

 

I blush at his word choice, but I boldly move my hands down to squeeze his butt. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t protest as he kisses me again, pulling me away from the wall. I let him lead me backwards, stumbling over our pants on the floor as he takes me back to the couch. I sit down on the edge as he drops all the condoms on the table and starts to open the lube.

 

Licking my lips, I pull his hips forward now to kiss teasingly at his navel and down his happy trail. He drops the cap for the lube as he moans, his head tilted back as my tongue licks down his shaft to the tip. I take his dick in my hand, letting my tongue explore him further and take in the musky taste of his precome.

 

“Fuck, Marco,” he moans and I pull away to look up at him. “Holy fuck.”

 

Jean moves so he’s got his knee on the couch, kissing me as he slowly leans me back. I follow his lead, letting him lay me back so he’s positioned between my open legs. He pulls away only slightly, his mouth hovering over mine, and our eyes meet.

 

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his eyebrows pulling together to make sure that this is what I want. That this is all okay.

 

“I’m sure,” I tell him, nuzzling my nose against his and resting my forehead against his. “With you, I’m positive.”

 

Jean smiles, his expression warm. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice sounding low and husky to my ears, which only adds to the nervousness twisting in my lower stomach.

 

Slowly, after lubricating his fingers, he lets his hand move down between my legs. He keeps his forehead rested against mine and he kisses me gently as he presses one inside me. It doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would, but Jean takes his time, anyway. His lips move slowly against mine as he pumps his finger in a steady rhythm, trying to help me get used to the new feeling.

 

He slides his tongue along my lower lip, letting his teeth graze against my skin as he presses a second finger in. I whine against his mouth, the feeling both pleasurable and also painful at the same time. He hooks his fingers around, trying his best to make it feel good. It’s then when he strikes something inside that causes me to gasp out against his mouth.

 

“Feel good?” he whispers, finally pulling his forehead away slightly, so he can watch my expressions.

 

My hips naturally buck back against his fingers as they strike against that bundle of nerves over and over. Whatever pain or discomfort I felt before vanishes with a sudden rush in my stomach that goes straight to my dick. I let out breathy moan of his name as his fingers curl around, now sliding deeper into my body easier as I get used to the stretch.

 

“ _J-Jean_ ,” I moan out, my back arching up from the couch. Our chests press against each other as his fingers pump a little faster, bringing me closer and closer. I hardly notice when he adds his third finger, too busy trying to get the feeling deeper inside.

 

Jean removes his fingers, kissing and biting up the side of my neck as he does. I groan, feeling _so close_ that it’s getting painful. Turning my head, I catch Jean’s lips with mine.

 

“Hurry,” I pant against his mouth, begging him to move faster and stop teasing me already. Jean smiles against my lips, reaching for the lube and a condom package from the table.

 

I watch as he rips the condom package open with his teeth, tossing the wrapper to the floor.

 

“Let me,” I say, taking it from his fingers. He watches me as I reach down, taking hold of him and giving him a few good pumps before rolling the condom on. I take my time, biting down on his shoulder as I do. He moans, bucking his hips against mine as if to remind me that he wants what I do just as badly.

 

“Stop teasing,” he growls, squirting lube onto his fingers to spread on his cock.

 

“Y-you started it,” I reply, grinding my hips up against his. His head falls back with another moan, and I admire how his muscles tense above me. His shoulders and arms trapping me underneath him, the way his chest is breathing rapidly, and how it all curves up his neck to his pointed chin. “You’re beautiful,” I tell him as his head falls back, his hair hanging in his face.

 

Jean smiles at me, moving closer so our bodies are pressed together. “You’re so fucking corny, oh my god,” he laughs.

 

“I know, but it’s true,” I giggle, our eyes meeting. With a soft smile still on his lips, he kisses me slowly. When he pulls away, I try to chase after him, not wanting him to be so far away.

 

He leans down once more to kiss the top of my nose, which makes us both blush and laugh quietly.

 

“You ready?” Jean asks softly and I nod my head, reaching one hand up to where one of his is braced against the couch to hold himself up. I take his hand, our fingers intertwining together, and he slowly pushes in.

 

I bite my bottom lip to keep from making any sounds of discomfort. His lips try to soothe me, kissing my forehead and cheeks and nose over and over again as he levels off inside of me. I can feel his body shaking, doing his best not to move until I’m ready and used to the stretch. He holds his position, his whole body tense as he waits for me.

 

“O-okay,” I whisper, my eyes closed as my fingers tighten around his, squeezing his hand. “Okay, you can move.”

 

Jean gives an experimental small thrust of his hips, which sends a jolt of pain up my spine. It’s mixed with a pleasurable feeling, which makes it easier to handle, and I bring my hips down slightly to meet him. After a couple of even thrusts, my body is used to the stretch around him, and the pain starts to ease away while the pleasure takes over.

 

His forehead rests against my shoulder, his breath coming in short pants as he starts to move a little faster. “M-Marco,” he moans against my skin. Hearing my name in such a breathy voice causes me to moan and arch my back, slamming my hips back against him eagerly. “Fuck! Fuck, Marco, _god damn_.”

 

I moan, sounding surprisingly loud in the quiet dorm room. Jean moves quicker against me, sending him deeper and deeper with each snap of his hips. When he finds the spot from earlier, I practically lose it right then.

 

“Fuck, Jean,” I moan out, my fingers squeezing his tightly while my free hand fists around the blanket that we’re laying on top of. My moans turn to whimpers and keens as Jean continuously hits that spot, unraveling me until I’m arching my back toward him, moaning out his name and seeing stars.

 

He stumbles a few times, having to realign himself and start his pace up again. Every time he does, his face flushes red with embarrassment. I reach up to push his hair back from his forehead, patiently waiting for him to push back in.

 

“Y-you feel s-so good, Jean,” I encourage him, my voice sounding like I’m out of breath. Jean groans, his breath hot against my skin as he starts back up in his steady rhythm.

 

When he finally lets go of my hand, it’s to grab my painfully hard cock. He fists it, his hand moving up and down in time with his hips, which makes my head spin. I pull him down for a heated and sloppy kiss, breaking it only to moan his name. He catches it, letting his tongue slip into my mouth as his kiss grows deeper.

 

His rhythm starts to get jerky soon, his fingers wrapped around me working me more rapidly.

 

“J-Jean, ah, I’m getting close,” I warn, our eyes locking as he moves down to me again. His forehead rests against mine, our hair sticking to skin with a layer of sweat.

 

“You c-can come,” he says as he tries to move his hips in a quicker rhythm.

 

It doesn’t take much more to push me over the edge. Another couple of hard thrusts from Jean hitting that spot and another sloppy kiss and I’m gone. I inhale sharply as it comes, my back arching high off the couch as my body tightens around Jean inside me. When I come, it lands on my belly and on Jean’s hand; my thighs shake, a continuous string of moans escaping from my lips as Jean’s jerky thrusts continue.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to follow, his body tensing as the rolls of hips start to grow more intense. My body is hyper sensitive, and when his dick stiffens inside me, a whimper escapes from my lips. He calls out my name, his voice husky beside my ear and his breathing hot and heavy against my sweat slick skin.

 

“F-fuck,” Jean moans as he continues to slam into me, riding through both of our orgasms. “Fuck, Marco!”

 

“ _Jean, oh god, J-Jean_ ,” I call out loudly, his name mixed between moans and high keens.

 

His thrusts finally slow to a stop, both of us panting heavily. Jean’s arms shake above me, and I reach up to wrap my arms around him, easing him down so he’s laying down against me. He takes my hand and laces our fingers together, resting them against my chest beside where his head lays. He places delicate kisses to the back of my hand.

 

I tilt my head down to kiss the top of his head, my free hand running along his spine softly.

 

“Th-that was amazing,” I tell him, nuzzling my face into his hair. “ _You_ are amazing.”

 

We stay like this for a while, just catching our breaths and happily enjoying the feeling of skin on skin. Jean finally pulls out, careful as he does, tossing the condom into the trash, and pulls the blanket up so he can wrap it around us as he lays back down on top of me.

 

We don’t talk about anything important. We hold hands, place kisses on random places of skin, and sleepily murmur “I love you” to each other.

 

I’m half asleep when I register the dorm door opening. “Jean?” I whisper, still feeling him laying on top of me. “Jean? I think someone’s here.”

 

The light flicks on, and both Jean and I look up to see Reiner standing in the doorway.

 

His eyes widen, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

 

“Reiner!” Jean shouts, scrambling to pull the blanket higher over both me and him. “What the fuck! Get the fuck out of here, oh my god!”

 

Reiner blinks a couple of times and looks away, coughing into his fist. His cheeks are tinged pink, and if I wasn’t so busy trying to cover up and hide behind Jean, I would have thought longer on the fact that it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Reiner Braun look embarrassed.

 

“I, uh, forgot my toothbrush,” he says quietly, moving to the bathroom to grab it.

 

“Oh my god!” I whisper to Jean with wide eyes. He looks at me hiding behind his shoulder and I can see the blush on his cheeks, too. “I can’t believe—”  
  
“Okay, I’m gone,” Reiner says as he returns to the room with his eyes covered. “I mean, hey, it’s totally natural. Good for you guys. Anyway, congrats and see you next week!”

 

He turns the light off as he goes. Once we hear the dorm door close, Jean and I both scramble up from the couch and grab our clothes, hurriedly putting them back on. We don’t talk about it again.

 

I add the legendary jizz blanket to my laundry basket, which I intend on doing all tomorrow before my last shift before break. Then, we turn off all the lights and climb up to Jean’s bunk. I curl up under the blankets, pulling him under with me once he’s climbed up. Wrapping my arms around him and holding him close, I sigh happily.

 

Jean’s fingers softly draw circles on the fabric of my shirt. I hum, my eyes closed, and relax against his body as we start to warm up under the covers.

 

“Hey, Marco?” Jean whispers. I open one eye to peak at him, then the other when I see him looking down with a slight frown on his lips.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

His eyes slowly move up to meet mine. “I just… I’m really nervous about going home again. I-I don’t think that I can tell my parents about you, but you were so brave and told your mom, and that makes me want to be brave, too.”

 

He sighs and then adds, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Hey,” I say, lifting his chin so he meets my eye again, “don’t say sorry about something like that. I don’t want you to ever do something that you aren’t ready or comfortable doing.”

 

He doesn’t seem comforted by my words. I lean forward and kiss the tip of his nose, nuzzling it with mine until he smiles a little bit.

 

“I can wait, Jean,” I promise him quietly. “I’ll wait until you are ready. Whenever that time is.”

 

Jean kisses me once and smiles, nodding his head a little. “Thanks, Marco.”

 

I smile, too, and close my eyes, holding him a little tighter. We fall asleep like this, curled in each other’s embrace, holding on tight. When I dream, it’s of him and when I wake in the morning, still a few hours before my alarm, I open my eyes to see him.

 

And I couldn’t have asked for more.

* * *

We wake up to the sound of Jean’s alarm going off on his phone. He groans loudly, hitting the snooze button, and readjusts himself against me. His fingers grasp my shirt, one of his legs hiked up over my hip.

 

I give him a few more minutes before I slowly shake him awake. “Jean,” I tell him, my voice sounding sleepy still. “C’mon we gotta get up. We have class today.”

 

“Nooooooooo,” comes his reply, muffled against my shirt.

 

Laughing lightly, I push him off so that I can sit up, careful not to bonk my head on the ceiling. “If you wanna shower, then you definitely have to get up soon.”

 

“Not gonna shower,” is all he says in response.

 

I lean down and give him a quick kiss before he swats me away. I climb down and grab some clothes for the day before hopping in the shower quickly. The showers in the dorms aren’t exactly nice, so I go as quickly as I can to avoid running out of warm water, and dry off with a towel.

 

I dress in jeans and one of Jean’s Say Anything t-shirts that he left in my wardrobe on accident last weekend when we did laundry. I towel dry my hair and brush my teeth before I step out of the bathroom to get all my stuff ready for my Medical Terminology class. It’s the only one I have left, and it’s a quiz, and then I’m home free until after Spring break is over.

 

“Jean,” I say, reaching up to flick him on his butt. “Time to wake up, sleepy head!”

 

Jean groans again but finally complies, stretching before he slowly makes his way down the ladder. He smiles tiredly at me, kissing my cheek.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly, his eyes looking a little worried. “Y-you know, like, uh, are you sore?”

 

I nod a little. “Yeah, but the shower helped. I’m sure it’ll be okay by the end of the day.”

 

Jean worries his bottom lip for a second. “I’m sorry, Marco. Fuck, maybe we shouldn’t of…”

 

“It’s okay. I’m okay, honest.” When he doesn’t look very convinced, I smile and add, “Plus, it was worth it.”

 

He stutters a bit as his cheeks turn red. He excuses himself to the bathroom to get ready, and since his class doesn’t start until 11:15, I tell him that I’ll see him later. I grab my coat, put on my boots, and head out of the dorm.

 

It’s cold outside, though it’s definitely starting to warm up a bit more. The sun is out, which makes everything feel happier and warmer. I take my time walking to class, if only to enjoy the sunlight for a few more minutes.

 

I only spend about 45 minutes in class before I finish my quiz and am free to leave. I tell my professor to have a nice break and head out, checking my phone for the time. It’s only a little after noon, and my shift at work doesn’t start until four.

 

I reach to the dorm to gather everything together for laundry. I take two baskets down, one with my clothes (and the blanket from the couch) and Jean’s dirty clothes.

 

The laundry room is empty, since most people are already done packing for break. I start a load for darks and lights, mixing both mine and Jean’s clothes together. I add the detergent and fabric softener and shut the lids, setting the two empty baskets on the floor so I can sit down on the bench.

 

My phone buzzes in my pocket, alerting me that I have a new text message.

 

**From: Jean**

I am so ready for break omg

 

**To: Jean**

Agreed! I’m doing our laundry right now. We just need to pack tonight.

 

**From: Jean**

): I hate packing

 

I roll my eyes and type a quick reply. I spend the next hour or so switching the clothes to the dryer and waiting for everything to finish so I can fold it back up and return to the dorm. Jean and I text back and forth, and he tells me when he’s on his way back to the dorm.

 

**To: Jean**

I’m still in the laundry room. Help me carry everything back? (-:

 

I slide my phone into my pocket as I start to fold the clothes, placing them all neatly in the baskets. Closing the dryers, I pick up one of the baskets just as Jean steps into the room.

 

“Just in time,” I say as he picks up the other laundry basket. “Wow, what a great boyfriend.”

 

“I know, I’m the best boyfriend the world has ever seen,” Jean replies with a shrug of his shoulders. I snort and try to hide my laughter, but he glares at me. “Hey, I am a _great_ boyfriend!”

 

“You went into a sex shop to find me a Valentine’s present,” I remind him.

 

“Okay, so that one time—”

 

“You make me take all of the notes in Psychology while you doodle,” I add.

 

“Okay, okay, okay!” Jean says as we get into the elevator. “I get it. I kinda suck.”

 

I smile and lean over to kiss his cheek. “Nah, you’re pretty perfect.”

 

Jean smiles proudly in response, and we walk together with the clean laundry to the dorm. With another hour before I have to make the walk from the dorm building to the pavilion for work, we decide to get packing out of the way as much as possible.

 

We each pack up our suitcases with enough clothes for a week, plus a few extras just in case. We finish gathering everything besides the basic essentials that we need to use in the morning still, and set the suitcases aside.

 

“Last day of work,” Jean says as I pull on my coat a little while later. “Who do you work with?”

 

“Sasha,” I reply, pulling on my boots next, “and Connie. He’s going to be there, too.”

 

Jean looks around the empty dorm and gets up, pulling on his coat. I raise an eyebrow at him questioningly, and he sighs. “I don’t want to stay here by myself all night,” he explains, wrapping the scarf around his head.

 

We head out into the cold evening together, holding hands as we walk. The pavilion isn’t too far, but we take our time, bumping each other’s shoulders and laughing about stupid stuff. We think about what we can do on the four hour train ride back to Jinae tomorrow, and Jean explains a few games that could make time pass a little quicker.

 

When we step into the pavilion, Sasha waves to us enthusiastically.

 

“Hi! Are you guys excited for Spring Break?” she asks as I get my uniform together in the office and clock in. Jean moves to stand next to Connie on the back counter, so the customers don’t think they’re about to order.

 

“Yeah, our train leaves tomorrow at 10,” I reply cheerily, helping Sasha restock up all the muffins up front. “What are your plans for break?”

 

“We rented all the Star Wars movies,” Connie says. He’s holding a Nintendo DS, pressing buttons as he sticks his tongue out in concentration.

 

“And we stocked up on snacks!” Sasha adds in a sing song voice. “We’re basically just gonna be hermits and not leave until break is over. We made a huge blanket fort in the living room, you guys should _see_ it! I’ll send you a picture tomorrow.”

 

I laugh and nod, agreeing that it does sound like a lot of fun. A few customers come up in a group together, and Sasha and I get to work taking orders and making them in a timely manner. Once they’re all seated, we go back to wiping things down and cleaning up while talking.

 

“Is this that new Pokémon game?” Jean asks, leaning closer to Connie to watch him play. “Oh shit, dude! That’s a rare one, you gotta catch it!”

 

“I know, I know!” Connie agrees, and a few seconds later they both groan out loud. Connie practically throws it over the counter in frustration. “Damn it! It got away!”

 

Jean laughs, “No offense dude, but you kind of really suck.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

We all laugh as Connie puts his head down on the counter. He hands it to Jean and tells him to try and catch it, if he’s so much better. The two of them play on Connie’s DS for the majority of the shift, while Sasha and I clean up and serve everyone that comes up for a coffee.

 

Since it’s the last day before break, Zoe calls and tells us that it’s okay to close early. Sasha woops loudly as she rushes to clean all the tables nearby and mop the floors, leaving me to clean the machines and count the register. Since it’s been slow, though, it doesn’t take much.

 

When we all head out of the pavilion together, tuckered into our coats and scarves, we walk together for a bit. Connie gives Sasha a piggy back ride, and she rests her arms on his head to keep him warm since she took his hat. She talks excitedly about their break, and says that she wishes that we were staying to partake in all the fun, as well.

 

“Bye, you guys!” she calls, waving as we continue toward the dorm buildings. “Have fun over break!”

 

“You, too!” I call back, waving both my hands over my head the way she always does.

 

Jean and I head back to the dorm quietly. We decide to go to bed early, since we missed out on a bit of sleep last night. Jean showers while I climb up into his bed even if it is my bed’s turn. Sleeping in Jean’s bed and surrounding myself with his scent makes me feel more at home than my bed.

 

I curl up under his blankets and close my eyes, and before Jean gets out of the shower, I’m fast asleep.

* * *

The next morning, we wake up early. We get ready and finish packing and say goodbye to the dorm for the next week. Before we leave, though, I fold the – now clean – blanket and leave it on the couch.

 

We take the bus through Trost to the train station, stopping on the way to grab a take out coffee and bagel for breakfast. When the usher takes our tickets and we board, we find seats near the back and sit down together. Jean rests his sketchbook on his lap, two pencils along with it, and connects headphones to his iPhone.

 

We each wear one of the ear buds and he scrolls through his music, finally deciding to just hit shuffle. _Rockin’ the Suburbs_ by Ben Folds fills our ears as Jean turns to a new page in the sketchbook.

 

“Okay, so just name something for me to draw, and I’ll draw it with my eyes closed,” he explains, his pencil poised over the blank page.

 

“A horse!”

 

Jean gives me a weird look but closes his eyes and starts the doodle, anyway. I cover my mouth to muffle my giggles as the drawing of what’s supposed to be a horse turns into something of an egg with two eyes, and a weird, disconnected body that looks like an even bigger egg. He adds hooves, but since he can’t see what he’s drawing, they’re nowhere near the rest of the drawing at all, which makes them seem like they’re floating.

 

“Done,” Jean says proudly, opening his eyes. “Oh, Jesus.”

 

I laugh as he scowls at the drawing.

 

“In my head, it was a really great horse. This is just disappointing to look at.”

 

“My turn!” I exclaim, taking the sketchbook and pencil from him as the song builds to a crescendo. “What do you want me to draw?”

 

“Draw a portrait of me,” he says with a devious smirk. “You look at me so much that you should have memorized exactly how I look.”

 

“Yeah, right,” I say with a light laugh.

 

I close my eyes and let the pencil move in a circular motion for his head. I place two eyes, a nose and a frown where I assume the head is, then add the neck and shoulders. I try to draw his arms to his hands, but give up on the hands and just try and finish by making it look like he’s wearing a sweater that’s too big so they cover his hands.

 

“I really fucking hope this isn’t how you see me,” Jean says.

 

I giggle, adding a scoop neck to the sweater before calling it done. When I open my eyes, I snort and start laughing. There is no description for what it looks like, but it looks nothing like Jean or anything even remotely human.

 

“Oh my god,” I say between fits of laughter, handing his sketchbook back to him. “I’m so sorry, Jean.”

 

He laughs too, and we play a few more rounds before we get bored. After a while, I lean my head on his shoulder and watch as he sketches a few doodles on a new page. He practices drawing figures doing different poses, like giving a thumbs up, or leaning against a wall.

 

When he grows bored of doodling, he closes his sketchbook and leans his head on top of mine. Neither of us fall asleep, though we rest our eyes from the bright sunlight coming in through the window. Our hands, fingers laced together, rest against his thigh.

 

The train stops at the station in Jinae around 2:30 in the afternoon, and we both stand and stretch our arms over our heads. Four hours spent in the same position and I’ve got a slight kink in my neck.

 

“Mom and Angelo said they were picking us up from the station,” I say as we step out of the train and move to the baggage claim section. “They’re probably waiting out in the parking lot.”

 

Jean nods and we grab our bags, pulling them behind us as we step out of the station. I pull my phone out from my pocket and send Mom a text asking where they are.

 

**From: Mom**

We are waiting near the exit for you!

 

“This way,” I say, taking Jean’s hand with my free one as I lead him through the small crowd of people and toward the exit doors. “You excited? We don’t have to take the bus all the way to the hospital at all this time.”

 

Jean smiles at me and squeezes my hand softly. “I’m really excited. I can’t wait to meet him, Marco.”

 

We step outside, into the bright sunlight, and I squint until my eyes adjust. When they do, I see the old car parked in the loop, and the front seat window is rolled down. Angelo is half hanging out the window, waving his arms around to get my attention. When I see him, the wind blowing through his dark, curly hair with a big smile on his face, I start running toward the car, dragging Jean along with me.

 

As we near the car, Angelo opens the door and steps out, meeting me half way. I let go of Jean’s hand as I hug my little brother tightly, his arms wrapping around my torso as he buries his face into my stomach.

 

“Marco! Welcome home!” he tells me excitedly.

 

I hug him for just a few seconds longer than I need to. When I pull away, I turn toward Jean.

 

“Angelo, this is Jean, my boyfriend,” I say, motioning to Jean, who lifts a hand slightly as if to say hi.

 

Angelo takes a few steps closer and wraps his arms around Jean, which catches him a little off-guard. His amber eyes lock with mine, his expression a little more than shocked, but he lets go of his suitcase for a moment to hug Angelo back.

 

“Thanks, Jean,” Angelo says when he pulls away.

 

“For what?” Jean replies, a little more than confused.

 

“Thanks for being there for him when I wasn’t.”

 

Jean blinks a few times, the words surprising him even more than the hug had. After a moment though, his features soften and he smiles and nods.

 

“Thanks for waking up for them,” Jean replies, his eyes moving from Angelo to look up at me. “Marco and your mom really needed you.”

 

Angelo gives Jean a big cheese smile that shows off all his teeth. He hooks arms with Jean and then me, pulling us both to the car. Mom gets out and moves around to the back, opening the trunk for us to put our suitcases. She gives both me and Jean a kiss on the cheek.

 

“How was the train ride over?” she asks as Jean lifts his suitcase into the trunk. He takes mine as well, placing it in neatly beside mine.

 

“Not too bad,” I reply, shutting the trunk. “Just kind of long.”

 

Jean and I pile into the backseat of the car, letting Angelo take the front. He turns around to talk to us, though, telling me all about how the staff at the hospital had a small discharging party for him the day he left. He tells me that he’s getting better still, and that he can start to run a bit, though he feels kind of dizzy if he runs too fast.

 

Still, Mom reminds us all, progress is progress.

 

“What would you boys like for dinner?” Mom asks, turning into the parking lot of the grocery store. “I figured that we could stop here and pick some stuff up.”

 

“Anything sounds good,” Jean says as we get out of the car.

 

“Yeah, we live off of pizza and noodles at the dorms,” I reply as the four of us head inside. Mom grabs a cart, leading us inside.

 

“And pop-tarts,” Jean adds, glancing at me with a small smile.

 

We wander the store, picking out random things that sound good. We decide on BLT sandwiches, macaroni salad, fresh cut fruit (Mom’s choice), and potato chips for dinner. Once we grab the things to make all of that, we continue walking through the store, grabbing random snacks that sound good and a few things to make a pancake breakfast in the morning.

 

We check out and load the groceries up in the backseat with us, since our suitcases take up all the room in the trunk. It’s a short drive from the grocery store in town back to our house.

 

It looks nicer without the snow piled up everywhere around it. Jean squeezes my fingers slightly from underneath a plastic bag of groceries, and we look at each other.

 

It was here when everything began for us.

 

“Okay, let’s get inside and get cooking!” Mom says excitedly, turning the car off and popping the trunk. Jean and I carry some bags and get our suitcases, following Mom and Angelo inside. “You boys wash up and get all settled in! I’ll start making dinner.”

 

“Wanna play cards while we wait for dinner?” Angelo asks eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a hopeful expression.

 

Jean and I exchange a glance before nodding. “Sure, we’re just going to put our suitcases in the room real quick,” I tell him, laughing when he fist pumps and rushes around to find the deck of cards.

 

We carry our suitcases to mine and Angelo’s room, setting them both down at the foot of my bed. Glancing over, I notice that his bed is unmade and messy and it makes my chest feel light with happiness.

 

Angelo’s bed is lived in again, and it is a sight for sore eyes.

 

“I don’t know what you were talking about when you were trying to warn me about your brother,” Jean says as we remove all of our layers so we’re just in t-shirts.

 

“Just wait, Jean,” I reply with a shake of my head. “It’s only day one.”

 

Jean laughs and we head back out to the kitchen table where Angelo has set out a deck of Uno cards for us. We all sit down as Mom cooks bacon for the BLT sandwiches, promising to let us know when she needs us to step in and help.

 

Angelo deals the cards and sets the rest of the deck in the middle, playing the first card that flips up. “Okay! The starting color is red!” he says, picking up his cards and putting them in order. “Jean, you go first!”

 

We play normally for a little while, but it soon becomes apparent that Angelo is trying to show off in front of Jean, while Jean is also trying to show off in front of Angelo. It ends up in a constant battle of them playing reverse cards back and forth, or the dreaded wild cards that have draw four connected. I laugh from behind my cards as Jean continues to draw from the pile.

 

“WHERE ARE ALL OF THE BLUE CARDS?” he says, his voice completely frustrated. “HA!” He slams a blue seven and smiles proudly, looking to me as I play my next card, which is a green seven.

 

Angelo, however, knowing that Jean has zero blue in his hand, plays a wild card and changes the color back to blue.

 

Jean looks at me and his eye literally twitches.

 

 _I told you_ , I mouth to him, unable to hide my smile as his eye twitches again.

 

Mom interrupts the game to eat dinner, making Angelo put the cards away until later. He agrees, but gives Jean a pointed look before saying, “We’ll finish this later, Jean.”

 

As he walks up to grab his plate and load it with food, Jean looks at me with wide eyes.

 

“Is it wrong that I am genuinely afraid?” he whispers, and I laugh again.

 

“You spoke too soon earlier,” I agree, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “This is only the beginning.”

 

We all sit around the table together to eat, thanking Mom for cooking. She asks about school, and when Jean says that he finally declared his major as studio art, she tells him that she’s so proud of him. He blushes a little and thanks her, and I reach for his hand under the table. When he looks up at me, I smile encouragingly.

 

When we finish eating, Jean and I do the dishes and clean up the kitchen so Mom can get to bed since she works in the morning. She kisses Angelo’s head, and mine and Jean’s cheeks wishing us all a goodnight.

 

“What are we gonna do tomorrow?” Angelo asks curiously as we dry the dishes and put them away in the cabinet.

 

“I don’t know. We hadn’t really thought about it.” Jean shrugs as we finish putting all the dishes away. “What would you like to do?”

 

“Let’s go swimming!” Angelo announces excitedly. “We can go to the high school and they have open swim. Wanna?”

 

“That sounds pretty fun, actually,” Jean says, looking to me as if the final decision rests in my hands.

 

I laugh and agree. “Sure, let’s go swimming tomorrow.”

 

Once the kitchen is cleaned up, Angelo gives us both hugs and goes to bed, as well. Jean and I sit out on the couch and watch TV for a little while, not really tired enough to sleep yet. I wrap us both up in a blanket that Mom made herself, and he puts an arm around me as I curl up into his side.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out.

 

“It’s from Reiner,” he informs me, his eyebrows pulling together. “I’m a little scared to open it, to be totally honest.”

 

I bite my lip and nod, because it would be a miracle if he didn’t mention the sight he walked in on the other night. Slowly, Jean slides his finger to unlock his phone, and opens the text. We both breathe a sigh of relief when we see it’s just a picture text and he pulls it up so it’s bigger.

 

It’s a selfie that Reiner obviously took with Bertholdt standing beside him. Bertholdt is wearing the traditional Mickey Mouse ears on his head, smiling into the camera, while Reiner is grinning broadly wearing the Mickey magician hat on his head.

 

“Oh my god,” Jean says.

 

“It’s cute!”

 

When he goes back to the text, he stops when he sees a new text from Reiner.

 

It simply says: (-;

 

“We are so fucked when we go back to the dorms,” Jean says, slapping a hand over his face as he turns his phone off.

 

I bury my face in his shoulder and groan, too. While most of Reiner’s teasing doesn’t bother me, I know for a fact that the embarrassment when he brings it up with us will never die.

 

We stay up a little later to finish watching an episode of _Property Brothers_ , and decide to get some sleep after it ends. I turn the TV off and fold the blanket back over the top of the couch before we creep quietly down the hall to the bedroom. Jean holds my hand behind me as I slowly open the door, pausing when it squeaks a little.

 

Angelo stirs a little, rolling to his side on his bed, and continues to snore.

 

I wave Jean forward, the two of us stepping into the room on our tiptoes. We change in the dark for bed and then climb under the covers together. I end up being the big spoon this time, wrapping my arms around Jean and resting my chin on top of his head as he burrows as close into my as he can. I giggle quietly when his nose tickles my neck.

 

“Goodnight, Marco,” Jean whispers so quietly that I barely even hear it. He presses one single kiss goodnight on my neck, and I close my eyes, breathing in his familiar scent.

 

The scent of home.

 

I bury my face in his hair, surrounding myself with everything Jean.

 

“Goodnight, Jean,” I whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a serious note, I would just love to thank everyone who has ever read, commented, subscribed to, bookmarked, drawn fanart, and sent kind messages or made posts on tumblr involving this story. This story has impacted both mine and Annie's lives in ways that we never could have imagined when we started planning back in November. We've made so many wonderful friends, and had so many kind people create things for us that I don't know how to thank all of you for what you have done. It made this such an experience for me, so I just wanted to say thank you officially.
> 
> This is such a bittersweet moment to say goodbye to this story, so maybe I'll just leave it at see you later.  
> Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it! (':
> 
>  **EDIT:** (this is annie btw) this was katie's final chapter but there is still one chapter left of the story : >


	22. bring me your love tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After so, so long, we're finally here.

It starts off completely normal – the morning, anyway. It’s just like always; my leg draped over Marco’s torso, snuggling, being grossly cute curled up beside him as I start to stir from sleep. I pull my trapped arm out from underneath me and lean back slightly, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and as I do, I glance over the sleeping boy beside me. The long eyelashes, the freckles, the calm expression nestled in his features as his chest rises up and down with an evenness of breathing.

 

I smile.

 

I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I dunno, man. Wanna fight about it? So I’m genuinely happy for the first time in fucking forever. Sue me.

 

With a deep sigh, I blink once before turning to roll over and slide both out of Marco’s arms and out of bed. But something stops me.

 

A set of brown eyes peeking over the side of the mattress, with a glint of knowing reflected in them.

 

_What the…_

 

“Angelo?” I ask, quiet and uncertain.

 

“Yep.”

 

My eyes narrow. “Um, what are you doing?”

 

He seems to shrug, but I can’t tell for sure because all I see is the top of his head, from the bridge of his nose upward. “You guys are weird.”

 

“ _We’re_ weird?” I start to say before I can stop myself. “ _You’re_ the one who’s staring at us like we’re friggin’ animals at a zoo.”

 

“You look like a giraffe.”

 

My narrowed eyes go even squintier as I sit further upright and lean forward. He sits back so that I can see him clearly; up on his knees, hands flat against his thighs, his back straight and in perfect posture.

 

“I do _not_ look like a giraffe.”

 

“Yeah, you kinda do.”

 

I snort, sliding out of bed now before cracking my shoulders and padding across the floor. Keeping my voice quiet still, so as not to wake Marco, I say, “Alright, Angelo. I’ll remember that when we go to the pool later. Prepare for the most intense dunking of your life.”

 

He stands now, trying to get as close to eye-to-eye as he can but since he’s stupidly short, he doesn’t even come close.

 

“You can’t dunk me,” he states matter-of-factly, eyebrows arching as his lips turn upward into a sort of grin. “I’m in recovery still.” Then, faking a cough into his tiny fist, he plasters the most sick and innocent look he can muster on his baby face. “I’m _weak._ ”

 

The way he says it reminds me of how brutally he kicked my ass the night before in Uno, and how merciless and smug this kid actually is after you get past the initial sweetness.

 

“Oh yeah?” I laugh – though it’s a little bitter due to my bruised ego, “Well you might be weak, but you’re still a little sh–”

 

Just as I’m about to say something probably inappropriate to say to a child, the sound of a squeaking box spring mattress stops me and causes me to glance over to the bed where Marco is just beginning to wake.

 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” I chirp. He raises a tired hand, twirling his fingers into a wave.

 

“Marco,” Angelo sighs, flicking on the lamp and leveling with him as he takes a seat beside his brother on the bed, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but… your boyfriend is sort of a jerk.”

 

“What did he do this time?” Marco breathes, then lets out a quiet laugh.

 

I butt in, “Your brother called me a giraffe.”

 

“Hey,” Angelo says, holding up a finger to me, “in my defense, you look like one. Your neck is long and your hair is like giraffe hair.”

 

“ _And,_ ” I continue, ignoring his commentary as I walk back across the room with a set of clean clothes in tow, “I woke up and he was watching us sleep! Just like, sitting there!”

 

Marco’s nose scrunches up and he casts a disapproving look at his brother. “Angelo, why?”

 

“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight,” I mutter before Mini Marco can get a word in. “I’m not letting this kid beat me at frickin’ Uno, _and_ call me a giraffe, _and_ watch us sleep.” Involuntarily, I shudder. “It’s not right.”

 

Marco gives Angelo a hard look, to which he simply shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to scare you… it’s just that you guys look different while you’re asleep.” Then, turning his gaze on me, he says, “You don’t look as mean.”

 

“Oh, _thanks_.”

 

“Angelo, why don’t you go eat breakfast or something,” Marco sighs, running a hand through his hair before stalling at the crown of his head.

 

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, getting up to leave. “Not like I even really _wanna_ be around while you guys are being gross and romantic and junk.” He grabs a hoodie off the floor and, tugging it on, lets himself out.

 

Marco’s hand finds mine and I look up at him.

 

“Sorry,” he says quietly, eyebrows furrowing together a little. “I mean, I know I warned you he was crazy, but… I guess ‘I-told-you-so’ doesn’t really encompass what I’m currently feeling.”

 

I laugh, and with fallen shoulders, I shake my head. “If you even tried to pull an ‘I-told-you-so,’ I’d probably have to kick your ass.”

 

Marco bites his lip and bumps my shoulder with his. “I’d kick _your_ ass right back.” The look on his face is joking, but there’s a glint in his eye that I can’t just let slide.

 

“Oh,” I snort, “is that a challenge?”

 

“Maybe, maybe not.”

 

I wait only a moment before I tackle that motherfucker with everything I have. He catches my fists in his hands as he tries to push me off, and with a grunt, he manages to get me on my back with my head off the bed and his arms hooked under my shoulders.

 

“Ow! Fucking– get off me, man!”

 

“You asked for it!” he laughs, and after a moment, his fingers start to twirl at my armpits and commences an all-out, full-fledged tickle fight.

 

“St-Stop!” I choke out. “I can’t breathe!”

 

“Not until you say the magic words,” he shouts.

 

My struggle for breath is apparent when I practically wheeze, “Wh-What the hell… are the magic words?!”

 

He has to think for a moment and, shit, it’s not funny anymore, but he giggles (fucking _giggles_ ) and leans in close. His voice is low. “You gotta say ‘Marco is the cat’s pajamas and I love him very much.’”

 

I squint up at him and his hands stall, as though he’s waiting for me to say it so he can release me. He waits just long enough for me to catch my breath.

 

“That’s so _corny_!” I cringe, wiping tears from my eyes with my wrists. “You couldn’t make me say that if it was the last– AH GOD, FUCK!” And before I have time to finish my sentence, he lunges us both with full force to the floor and pins my hands above my head.

 

“You’re lucky my mom’s not home, or she’d have your head for taking the lord’s name in vain,” he says with a tilt of his head.

 

I’m seeing stars so painfully that it’s a miracle I manage to get out, “You sure she wouldn’t be angrier for me shouting the word f–”

 

But the moment his lips press against my neck, the word melts on my tongue and I inhale sharply; he stops tickling and his hands roam upward until they’re cupping my shoulders, pressing me back down into the carpet with a gentle firmness.

 

“…Fuck,” I breathe, finally.

 

Marco pulls away and looks up into my eyes, his lips turned upward only slightly, and in one quick movement, he catches my mouth in a soft kiss.

 

And just as he pulls away – before we both get up and get our things ready to go to the high school pool, and before Angelo storms in with a worried look on his face (claiming it sounded like someone was being brutally murdered) – I lace my fingers tiredly behind his neck and close my eyes.

 

It’s brief, but it’s memorized. Like the sound of someone’s voice that you’ve heard a thousand times, like the way you never forget how to ride a bike no matter how long it’s been, or the feeling when you walk in the door and you know that you’re home. With my eyes closed, my fingertips graze the back of his neck and I understand that this was where I was always meant to be.

 

“Hey, Marco,” I murmur.

 

He makes a small sound for me to continue.

 

“You’re not the cat’s pajamas, you know.”

 

“I know,” he says with a silent laugh.

 

I open my eyes and let my hands fall to my sides.

 

“You’re the _bee’s knees._ ”

 

He shakes his head, at once laughing loudly, and rolls his body off of me. “You’re worse than _I_ am,” he murmurs.

 

But I can still hear the smile in his voice.

 

* * *

 

Of course, I make Marco keep his money and whip out Dad’s credit card upon arriving at the pool. Angelo keeps talking about how it’s not fair that we’re on spring break and we aren’t actually vacationing anywhere, as well as lamenting over the fact that it’s still pretty chilly outside for anyone to consider this spring weather. He fills in every pause with something new to say, and once we get into the locker rooms and change, he’s the first one with his dorky speedo on and goggles strapped tightly over his eyes.

 

“Are you a swimmer?” I ask him as I fold my towel over my arm and wait with him for Marco to finish getting ready.

 

“Sort of,” he nods, turning his head away dismissively. “I’m going to start swimming once the school year starts. Our school has like a club and stuff.”

 

“That’s pretty cool,” I offer. I’m still not very good with talking to kids, but Angelo is a chatterbox, so it’s easier. “Do you know how to do all the different strokes?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” he says, turning back to face me. He then demonstrates each one for me before promising to show me exactly how to swim them once we get to the pool. I just nod and go along with it.

It’s not long after that Marco rounds the corner and gives us a wave. “Ready?”

“Born ready,” Angelo says gravely.

“Woah, man,” I laugh, trying to lighten the heavy mood Angelo has suddenly taken on, “take it easy. It’s just swimming.”

He ignores me, and instead points a finger at my chest. “I’m racing you, and you’re gonna lose… just like how you lost at Uno.”

“What the hell, kid?!”

“Um, language, Jean,” Marco interjects timidly, holding the door open for us as we all leave the locker room and head down the hall toward the sound of splashing.

Angelo walks quickly ahead of us and okays it with the lifeguards before he enters the pool area, his brisk pace only quickening after he’s around the bend.

At first glance, the high school looks pretty average – on the outside, at least. However, on the inside, I never would have guessed that there would be a fucking straight-up water park. Like, it’s not just a swimming pool like they made it out to be; this place is decked out with a full-length pool, diving board, hot tub, lazy river, _and_ a waterslide.

I stop dead in my tracks.

“Did you go to school here?” I ask him in disbelief.

“Oh, no,” he smiles, shaking his head. “This was kind of the rich kid school. I went to Jinae Area Public Schools – a few miles from here. We just come here sometimes because their pool is awesome.”

“Your mouth says ‘pool,’” I tell him slowly, glancing once at him over my shoulder before turning back to survey the sight before me, “but your eyes say ‘aquatic underground that no one thought to mention also included a waterslide.’”

Marco blinks. “You’re really stoked about this, aren’t you?”

“I mean, no I’m not.” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest as we continue walking. “Not really… Not at all. No.”

He laughs. “Wanna go down the waterslide?”

It only takes a fraction of a second before I cave and my mouth breaks out into the biggest cheese of all time. “Fuck yeah, I wanna go down the waterslide.”

Marco leads the way, and after we climb the huge spiral staircase leading to the very top, he motions for me to go first. I look from him to the bored lifeguard and take a seat on the slide, and my hands curl around the stopping bar above my head.

And just before the guy blows his whistle to signal that I’m free to slide, Marco leans in close to my ear and whispers, “Your butt looks really good in my swimshorts.”

I slide down the waterslide with the reddest face known to man, and with a deep breath, the slide empties me out into a big ass pool where I proceed to do three front flips and snort chlorine up my nose.

“My butt doesn’t look good,” I mutter as I step out of the water, huffing as I do to try and get the burning sensation out of my nose. “I don’t even _have_ a butt. What the hell is he talking about.”

Just as I’m finished complaining aloud, I shoot a glance to my right for no reason other than to make sure nobody’s heard me. Unfortunately, it’s as though fate just wants to take a huge shit on me, like, all the time – so it’s only right that when I look over, who else would be sitting there but a one Angelo Bodt. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up against his chest, squinting up at me through his partially-foggy goggles.

“Oh, lord,” Angelo sighs, turning his head to the heavens as though Jesus were actually looking down and nodding his head in agreement, “my brother is dating a crazy man.”

Just as I’m about to open my mouth to say something further, Marco appears at the end of the slide and I watch as he pinches his nose, somersaulting once underwater before coming up for air. However… his ascent seems to happen in slow motion. He surfaces, and along with him, a hundred water droplets cling against the bare skin of his chest. He shakes his head, flinging even more water along with it, and his eyes flutter open.

Marco runs a hand through his hair and looks around for a moment, obviously searching for either Angelo or myself, and there’s a strange supermodel-like quality about him that I honestly do not deserve but in some inexplicable turn of events, I wrangled that shit like it was a goddamn rodeo.

I can feel my face heating up, even before Angelo calls him over. It reaches the tips of my ears just as soon as his eyes find mine, flitting between his brother and me as a smile blooms on his lips. He ducks back down into the water and swims toward us, popping back up just as he had before.

Only this time, it’s up-close and personal.

_God, no,_ I think, crossing my legs in what I hope looks to be a casual way, _not in front of Angelo, you sick freak!_

“Come on, Marco,” Angelo grins, standing as he does. “Let’s go on the diving board.”

“Ah,” he sighs. I can see his shoulders tense. “I’m kind of nervous of the diving board.”

“Come ooooooon,” Angelo laughs, ushering him out of the water as he turns away to head for the end of the pool. “You worry too much.” And with that, he leaves us both in the dust.

I turn my gaze from Angelo’s retreating form to my boyfriend, who has both arms now wrapped around his torso.

“He’s right, you know,” I offer. He meets my eyes with a curious look in his own. “You worry _way_ too much. It’s a diving board – what do you think is gonna happen?”

“Honestly?” he laughs, his hand moving from his shoulder to cup the back of his neck. “I’ve had this irrational fear since I was little that I was going to slip at the end – that there would be a puddle on the end of the board and as I jump up to get a little spring going, I’d slip and hurt my ankle and fall into the pool and drown.”

I whistle lowly. “Wow. You’re right. That is _totally_ irrational.”

He flicks water at me. “Shut up.”

It’s too hard to fight the grin threatening to peel out onto my lips, so I end up smiling so wide that he can’t help but smile back, and as I offer my hand out to him, I already know he’ll follow me. To the diving board, to wherever.

His hand finds mine, but before I can pull him out of the water, he flips my palm and plants a soft kiss on the back of my knuckles.

“Alright, Romeo,” I joke, still fighting the blush (and embarrassing boner) as I heave once and pull him from the pool. “Let’s go show your brother how cool we are.”

“ _So_ cool,” Marco echoes, following me as we drip across the ceramic tiled floor. He laughs once. “If Angelo thinks we’re cool, I worry for the generation of the future.”

“What the heck are you talking about,” I snap, turning toward him only once we catch up with Angelo, who waits two kids in front of us in line for the diving board. “We’re cool, Marco. We’re college kids. Doesn’t that automatically, like, skyrocket our coolness levels?”

“Maybe.” Marco cocks his head to the side. “Technically. But… all we really do is study and watch TLC. How legitimately cool does that sound?”

I blink back at him. “Point taken.” Then, with a quiet laugh, I bite out, “I blame Reiner and Bertholdt.”

From the corner of my eye, I see the lifeguard stationed at the diving board give the go-ahead for Angelo to step up, and with absolutely zero hesitancy, he climbs up the steps and positions himself on the board. He pulls at his goggles’ elastic once in the back before it flicks hard against his thick, russet hair and grins to himself.

With a running jump, his knees bend and he kicks off.

A sort of war cry pierces the air as he pulls his knees to his chest and cannonballs off the tip of the diving board, meeting the water with as ostentatious splash.

“Alright, Angelo!” Marco calls, hands cupped around his mouth. Angelo doesn’t hear him, still underwater as his older brother shouts, but when he breaches the surface, I call once, too. With whooping cries echoing off the water, he cheeses up at us and gives a flashy thumbs up.

He waits nearby as the next kids leap haphazardly into the water, and when it’s my turn, I hear an unexpected holler from the pool – Angelo.

“Go, Jean!” Angelo says, then tries to whistle – but his lips are too wet and it sounds strange. Nonetheless, I give him two thumbs up high in the air before running to the end and leaping with a quick spin… And then I descend.

The water is cool; I almost don’t want to come up for air because it’s such a strange peacefulness that washes over me from such depths, but my weak lungs send distress signals to the rest of my body and force me up above the crest of the water.

I gasp, shrill and needy before my pinched-shut eyes blink through the droplets clinging to my eyelashes. Angelo’s fist is in the air, and when my blurred vision clears, I make a b-line to his place near the side of the pool.

Marco’s up.

“You got this, babe!” I shout – without thinking, obviously, and it comes as a surprise to me. Angelo shoots a sideways look in my direction and I cringe, because pet names are _so_ not my style, to the point that I’m not even sure how it slipped out.

But when I see the look on Marco’s face, I make a mental note to use them a little more often. His eyes light up, and – albeit nervously – he smiles. Time slows as he approaches the board, and with measured, tense steps, he stands at the precipice.

“If I die,” he calls, pointing at us, “I blame the two of you.”

“Quit bein’ such a baby and jump!” Angelo laughs, leaning back in the water to get a better view of his brother’s grand gesture of bravery.

He takes a deep breath, toes curling over the end, and with one uncertain glance down at the board – probably to make sure there’s no puddle there to turn that irrational fear of his into a reality – he leaps.

And, god, is it a sight.

His eyes change as soon as he leaves the plank, turning from sharp and afraid to certain, soft, and sure. It’s the Marco I’ve seen so many times, strong when he needs to be, and – above all – happy. The light coming in through the windows on the eastern wall reflects off the back of his head and his mouth stretches into a wide grin.

He plummets into the water and, after a beat, he surfaces with a heavy breath.

“That was amazing,” I say as he swims over to us, which forces a laugh out of him.

Angelo laughs, too. “Well, of course it was amazing to old Goo-Goo Eyes over here.” He splashes me and I shrink back, spitting out the water that flies into my mouth as I do. “You guys are hard to hang out with when you’re all lovey-dovey and stuff.”

“Sorry,” Marco apologizes, and despite how sincere it sounds, I don’t miss the quick look he shoots me. It’s a look that says: “I’m not really _that_ sorry.”

“Alright,” the little one huffs, fixing his attention on the lanes across the pool. “Jean, I want you to race me.”

“What the heck,” I snort. “Are you determined to make me look bad in front of your bro?”

He rolls his eyes, leading us toward the lane barriers, and with one quick look over his shoulder, he states, “You saying that just means that you’ve already admitted defeat.”

I narrow my vision and make a V with my fingers, pointing them at my eyes before shoving my index finger in his direction.

“Alright, kid. It’s _on._ ”

 

* * *

We race and, by not only a few seconds, but a whole _ten,_ Angelo kicks my ass seven ways to Sunday. I come up for air as my fingertips make contact with the wall of the pool and gasp, punching at the water as Marco declares Angelo the winner.

“Dude!” I wheeze at him, all the while the little twirp sticks his tongue out at me and pulls the lower lid of his left eye downward in sheer mockery. “You’ve been asleep for seven months – how are you so amazing at this?!”

“You’re just mad ‘cuz you’re trying to impress my brother,” he grins shamelessly.

I shoot a helpless glance at Marco, to which he holds up both hands. “Don’t look at me.”

The day goes on like this – with us keeping an eye on Angelo as he swims around, lapping kids in the lazy river like it’s a sport, all three of us taking turns on the water slide, and of course, a good half hour in the comforting heat of the hot tub. Angelo makes friends with other little kids, showing them the many different types of strokes and swimming techniques, and while his attention is focused elsewhere, Marco shyly takes my hand underneath the blow of the hot tub’s jet.

“Best spring break ever,” he murmurs softly, tapping my leg with his toes in a brief moment of intimacy.

And even though I’ve been all over with my parents, even though I’ve done a lot of things and visited a lot of different places, I know with everything I am that I’d give them all away to spend another week here in Jinae. It’s ordinary and quiet and from anyone else’s perspective, it probably looks like the most average way to spend a vacation.

But it’s totally not.

It’s the most extraordinary spring break I’ve ever had.

 

* * *

Honestly, I don’t know where the time goes. The week passes by quickly and the more I think about having to leave this place of peace, of leaving Angelo and Giuliana and their small, comfortable life, the more I dread it. I try to keep the final days of our break in the back of my mind, knowing full-well that they’ll be spent in awkward quiet at my house, but it’s hard – especially when the final day comes and I’m woken up from my place on the couch by a gentle nudge.

I blink my eyes open. Marco’s standing over me, his expression soft as he leans in to press his lips to my forehead. “Rise n’ shine, my beautifully intricate giraffe cracker.”

My expression does not betray the inward-cringing I’m currently experiencing. “What the fuck,” I voice in a cracked whisper.

His hand musses my hair. “New term of endearment I was trying out. No?”

“ _Hell_ no.”

Marco laughs, taking a seat beside me on the floor near the couch. “Alright. I’ll make a mental note not to use that one again.” He pauses thoughtfully, then sighs. “Sorry you’ve had to sleep on the couch all break. My brother…”

“It’s fine,” I assure him softly, still waking up and finding it hard without a cup of hazelnut coffee as my partner in crime. “Besides, I didn’t want to make it weird for your brother. Trust me, I get it.”

He doesn’t look too sure, but I arch my back against the pillows and sit upright, before leaning forward to plant a firm kiss to the side of his mouth.

“We’ve got time,” I murmur.

Just as I pull away – and thank you Moses, Jesus, Allah, whoever is up there – Giuliana’s bedroom door opens and she enters the living room in her pajamas and fuzzy blue robe.

She yawns. “Ah, morning boys.”

“Morning,” we reply in unison.

“How’s your back, Jean?” she asks, concern thick in her voice. “I know it hasn’t been easy sleeping out here…”

“I tried to get him to take my bed,” Marco states. “But he’s too stubborn.”

Giuliana giggles. “He sure is.”

“I’m sitting right here,” I joke.

“Oh, you are?” The sass coming out of this kid, I swear. “Wow, I didn’t know. When did you get here, Jean?”

I bring my foot up and shove his head with it. “Eugh, gross!” he groans, then proceeds to lift his foot up in the air, shove it near my face, and ask me how I like the smell of stinky feet in the morning. We’re laughing despite being equally grossed out, and Giuliana just shakes her head solemnly.

“Honestly – it’s like you two are Angelo’s age,” she admonishes, and turns away from us to head to the kitchen. Still, despite having seemingly given up on the pair of us, I hear her mutter something about having breakfast ready in a bit.

I groan, leaning back again and running my hands over my face. “I don’t want to go home today.”

Marco doesn’t say anything, because after what he saw the last time, he understands why. My stomach knots, tying uncomfortably as his silence speaks for him.

“But,” he finally says, “your sister will be there. You miss her… don’t you?”

I grunt. _Yeah._

“See?” he says, and pulls my hands away from my face, craning his neck upward to get a better look. “It won’t be all bad… I have faith.”

I chance a glance up at Giuliana’s religious reminders hanging on the walls and quirk an eyebrow at him. “Well, that’s pretty obvious.”

He scoffs. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

There’s a moment that passes between us – and even though it’s not long, it feels like it lasts forever.

“Even if… if you _don’t_ tell you dad… about us. Um.” He huffs and runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the words. “Even if he doesn’t know… right now, at least… I’m still going to be there supporting you. And… I hope you don’t doubt that I’ll be by your side through… well, everything.” He stammers. “I-I think it will be good for you to see them. For your sister. And to, uh, make things right with… him.”

I nod.

“Thanks, M–”

“You’re _leaving_ today?”

We both look up to the doorway, and through the light of early morning, I see Angelo standing, staring back at us.

“I wanted to take you to the park,” he says simply – but his tone is sad, and on his final word, his voice breaks.

Marco stands suddenly, crossing the room to where his brother pouts with his arms across his chest.

“I’ll be home soon,” he tells him quietly. “And… of course Jean can come and visit this summer if he wants.”

And then… Angelo does something that surprises me. He looks up at Marco, and then fixes his eyes on me. Across the room, he walks quietly, and when he comes to the edge of the couch I’m still occupying, he makes a seat for himself with what little room he has. I move my legs to accommodate him, and he scoots further back until his side is flush against me.

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs.

I’ve never known how to talk to kids. How to behave around them, how to figure out what’s going on in their heads, or how to make any sense of them, whatsoever. I’d blame it on never having younger siblings, but I know that’s not true – I’m just not cut out for being a good influence, and that feeling has stuck with me my whole life.

But suddenly it seems that… well, hell, maybe I _could_ be one. Angelo, who has been trying to one-up me all week, who has shown me where Marco singlehandedly gets his sass from, who smiles blindingly and without vulnerability – he’s the one, now, reminding me that I can still be good enough. That to him, I _am_ good enough. And even though he’s just a kid, he takes the knot in my gut and nimbly unwinds it.

Angelo is feisty and aggravating and… he’s a lot like me.

“I’ll be back,” I grin, ruffling his hair.

“You better be,” he says seriously. “And bring your bike next time. There’s a bunch of cool trails near our house that I can take you on. And we can go swimming at the lake…”

The smile isn’t just on my face. It’s like a weird happiness that encompasses everything. So I tell him, “That sounds really fun,” and when he decides that my answer will suffice, he gets up and follows the smell of bacon to the kitchen.

“He’s a handful,” I say, filling the gap in the air that he leaves in his absence, “but I like him.”

“I told you so,” he mumbles – but when he realizes the connotation of his words, he looks up at me and together, we laugh.

It’s like I said – the endings are always sad, no matter how you slice them. It’s the times you find yourself somewhere in the middle that keep you laughing – and with Marco, I know there will always be sunlight.

* * *

 

It’s five o’clock when we slide out of the car my father sent for us, standing solemnly in front of the tall, gray house. Its peak blocks out the sunset. The lights are on inside, but the blinds mute the light and cast a hazy yellow glow out into the street.

“Here we go again,” I sigh, and with one final, quick look– just to make sure no one’s watching – I steal a kiss from Marco. He flushes, but smiles knowingly.

_Someday._ It’s a word that consumes my mind, and I wonder if Marco’s thinking the same thing.

Words we both want to say linger in the air because it’s still cold here – in the air, in everything – and we walk up to the front door in silence. It doesn’t seem right to walk in, even though it’s _my house_ , and so I ring the doorbell twice. It’s like we’re holding our breath as we wait for it to open, but when it does…

There’s a wave that crashes – and at once, there is relief.

Familiar hazel eyes gaze down into my own. The screen door closes just as soon as it opens; she steps down onto the porch and darts into my arms, has hers wrapped around me before I can get a word out, and suddenly, my eyes begin to burn.

“Klaudia,” I choke out – and it’s all I can say, because nothing else matters.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

We stand, holding each other for a long time before she pulls away, her fingertips wiping at the corners of her eyes.

“You’re taller,” she says.

“That’s what people who haven’t seen you in a long time say,” I smirk. “You’re all clichéd-out from being married.”

She thwacks my arm and tells me to shut up, and without meaning to, I laugh.

It’s been a long time since there was laughter here.

Klaudia stands still for a moment before she repeats her words, as if saying them on continuum might somehow help validate them. “I missed you.”

I laugh again, just once, before the painful feeling in my chest subsides. “Yeah. I missed you, too.”

She smiles, and after another quick moment passes she turns her eyes on Marco.

“Oh,” I say, realizing they might need some sort of introduction. “Klaudia, this is Marco, my roommate and… um, my best friend. Marco… this is my sister. Klaudia.”

He doesn’t waste time holding a hand out for a shake, and she returns it gladly. “Nice to meet you, Klaudia,” he says softly. “I’ve… Well. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s great to meet you, as well,” she grins, then shoots me a curious look. “Hopefully Jean has said nothing but good things.”

“Of course. Jean showed me pictures from your wedding – you looked beautiful.”

I raise an eyebrow; I don’t remember having shown Marco any photographs from her wedding. However, it soon dawns on me that the pictures Marco’s talking about are the illustrations I did, ones from my sketchbook of my sister in her bridal gown – and the fact that he considers them photographs somehow stuns me, serving only as a testament to how highly he values my art.

I try not to blush, but it’s hard. Running a hand through my hair as she thanks him, I lift the suitcase in my hand and look over her shoulder, into the house, and that nervous feeling returns with a vengeance.

“You guys can come in,” she tells me, reading the expression on my face without asking a word. “Jean, your room is fixed upstairs, so make yourselves comfortable. Roger is helping with dinner – so, ah, we’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

Marco’s stomach growls as we head inside and start up the steps; we’re both starving after the long train ride, and even though the night is far from over, I feel exhausted.

“My sister’s in the guest room,” I say suddenly, “so, uh, bring your suitcase in and unpack.”

I expect him to follow, but he lingers in the doorway, thoughtful as he does.

“I remember the last time we were here.” Marco’s voice is quiet, laced with unexpected tenderness. I think I know what he’s about to say – remembering _exactly_ how the last time we were here went – but when he speaks again, his words catch me off-guard. “We took a nap, and you helped me tie my tie.”

My suitcase is heavy as I heave it up onto the bed, which bounces against its weight. I don’t look up at him; instead, my eyes drift out of focus as I try to remember the way my hands shook at the display of uncertain intimacy, tying his tie and my fingertips accidentally grazing his skin. It hadn’t yet been a full day since I’d kissed him beneath the hazy glow of Sasha’s stoop.

“I was nervous,” I murmur.

“Me, too.”

Finally, I look up at him, and when he catches my eyes he smiles – remembering. “I was really upset at the time,” he tells me, “because of what I wanted it to mean. The night before.” Marco pauses, setting his bag down and finally walking toward me. He takes a seat beside my bag on the bed and lifts an arm up on top of it, waiting before saying anything further. “You were… so confusing back then.”

I blurt, “I’m sorry,” but even that doesn’t make up for that time spent with mixed signals and terrible weights in our chests… And it was my fault.

“I don’t blame you,” he says simply. “It prepared me for the worst – and made me. Um. Treasure us.”

Maybe if it were different – if we had been back at the dorms and not standing in the bedroom of my so-called home, standing on pins and needles since I feel like I don’t belong – maybe I would have called him out. Said he was being corny the way I always do when he says something sentimental and my instincts tell me to avoid it. But with the way it is, and the way he’s looking up at me with brown glassy eyes full of a word I know but still can’t bring myself to accept – I don’t.

I just nod, and we fall into silence with one another.

“I love you,” I say quietly, even with the door open.

He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and says it back just the same.

* * *

 

We get ready just the same as we had in December, with our suits and ties (which, yet again, are both tied by yours truly) and by the time we’re done dressing, there’s a call from up the stairs – Klaudia – announcing that it’s time for dinner.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and stand still, just until I feel a hand on my shoulder. Marco’s thumb rubs at the collar of my suit jacket and he pulls the heavy sigh from my lungs.

“Even if nothing goes right,” he tells me quietly, “we’ll get through it. Okay?”

I shrug.

“Okay.”

It’s clear he doesn’t believe me but he lets it go, patting my back twice as we exit through the doorway and head down the vast staircase, descending to the lower level and following the sound of light chatter coming from the entertaining room – which is a lot like the normal dining room but, I mean, _obviously_ it’s different in some way aside from being a more fancy-looking dining room. It’s _completely_ necessary.

I scoff at it all as we approach the double doors, hands in my pockets, trying to keep my back straight but sweating already beneath the light of the glass chandelier hanging above. The air in this room feels cold – and I remember why.

His back is to me, and he’s holding a glass of wine in his left hand while carrying on conversation with Roger, Klaudia’s husband who I never really got on with. He laughs, probably at some bad joke Roger made, and he swishes his glass twice before taking a sip.

Klaudia’s fiddling with the fancy gramophone in the corner while my stepmother – her mother – negotiates her out of putting on Led Zeppelin. She laughs, agreeing, and as we step inside she greets us, raising the hand not occupied with balancing the 120-gram record.

“Welcome to dinner,” Klaudia deadpans.

I almost laugh, but I find it caught in my throat when my father turns around. He’s about a head taller than me, so his gaze falls down on me in a sort of “automatically condescending” way.

The room falls silent, but once the record crackles and classical music begins to fill the room, my father takes this as his cue.

“Jean,” he says, “welcome home.”

I nod at him, and he holds my gaze for a moment longer before he turns his eyes on Marco and nods once at him. “Nice to see you back, Marco.” There’s an unspoken meaning behind his words that we both understand, but it goes over Klaudia’s head – and I can tell she’s confused by the way her head cocks to the side a fraction… but she doesn’t press it, and for that, I’m glad. She knows the way things work in this house, so she’s grown accustomed to staying out of something when the sense is bad.

There’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll bring it up later – without the threat of being condemned.

Marco nods in response. “Nice to see you too, sir.”

It seems as though that’s all that’s needs to be said, so when he turns around again to speak to Roger, the room falls back into a quiet murmur and I let out a small sigh. My stepmother brushes past Klaudia, touching her shoulder as she does like some silent explanation for leaving the room, but as she leaves I sense a familiar coldness.

_Shake it off,_ I think, and force myself to try again.

“So, uh, what’s for dinner?” I ask, approaching Klaudia who fiddles with the knobs of the gramophone. Marco follows wordlessly at my heels.

“Oh, you know,” she sighs, straightening and picking up her glass of wine before taking a quick sip. “The usual. Some sort of gourmet chicken with pasta. Lots of other things. Mom and Roger have it handled in there. You know I’m no cook.”

“Good thing you found Roger,” I say, but it’s only surface-level praise. Roger’s a chef at a multi-star kitchen in Europe, which I honestly don’t know much about except that these qualifications have gotten his face plastered in multiple magazines, as well as in my father’s good book.

She rolls her eyes. “I would try and refute that but, honestly, if it wasn’t for him it would be PB and J’s for the rest of my life.” With a laugh, she sets her glass down on the left end of the dinner table, which is long and much more extravagant than our other dining room’s table. Klaudia looks across the room, her eyes following Roger and my father as they both head into the kitchen, probably to finish getting the dinner together. I can tell she’s waiting to see if their demeanor changes once they’re out of the room.

“So,” Marco asks, breaking the sudden silence, “has your family always dressed up for dinner? When I came for Christmas Break, it was the same way… it’s just. Ah. A lot fancier than what I’m used to.”

“It’s _too_ fancy,” she acknowledges, then looks down at herself. She’s wearing a dress that stops just above the knee, but the skirt is gilded with sequins and glitter that dissipates near the bodice. Her hair is curled, and her makeup is more precisely applied than when we met her at the door. “When people have a lot, they expect a lot.”

And I know all about the expectations of this family. It goes far beyond dinner, past the fancy clothes we have to wear and the way everything is pristine to the point of it feeling like a museum.

Dinner is quiet. We take our places and my father asks Roger about the most recent culinary award he’s received; my stepmother talks softly with Klaudia about life in England; all the while Marco and I remain silent. It’s hard to even think of something to say to him because… well, I don’t feel like myself. It’s a separate skin in this place, and it doesn’t feel the same.

 

We finish eating – although my own personal, deeply introspective challenge of “how quickly can I manage to get this food in my guzzle without exuding ulterior motives” makes me the first one done. I’m soon followed by Roger and Marco, and together, we help tidy up the table.

 

“So, Jean,” Roger says once we’re in the kitchen. “Your sister asked me earlier if you’d be up for going out tomorrow. We were thinking a movie maybe, or a quick lunch or something.”

 

“Yeah,” I shrug, setting the plates down beside the sink, careful not to let them touch my jacket sleeves, “that’s fine.”

 

My stiff reply matches his stiff proposition, and he nods once at me. “Good, I’ll let her know.” He heads back into the dining room, and as he does, I notice Marco making his way toward me with his own stack of cleared plates.

 

“That could have been worse,” he whispers as he sets them down. “Like, _way_ worse.”

 

“Right,” I nod tersely. Before I lead the way back into the dining room, I clap him once on the shoulder. It’s the best I can do, anyway, and he gets it.

 

We clear the table quickly with the three of us working at it, but each time I walk back in, it’s like I’m purposely being ignored by my father. He won’t look at me – won’t break eye contact with Klaudia for a moment as she tells him what seems like a _riveting_ story about the ethics of something or other over seas. He seems so determined not to notice me that even when I take his plate, he doesn’t flinch.

 

 _I’m your son,_ I feel like crying. _You can’t just shut me out and pretend I don’t exist when you’re the one who insisted I come back home._

 

It’s all I can think about when it’s decided that we’ll take our drinks to the parlor and finish the evening there. It’s the first thing on my mind when he insists on sitting in the armchair nearest his wife and Klaudia on his right. He goes where it’s impossible for me to follow.

 

Klaudia ends up talking to Marco a lot of the time – about school, medicine, living with me as a roommate. There’s a lot she questions him about that he’d answered before, but with her here to act as the mediator, she keeps the mood familiar and positive. If the conversation starts to shift to me, she rears back and redirects it.

 

Marco starts to ease into the atmosphere as he sips his water. He’s not happy – that much is painfully obvious – but he’s not uncomfortable, and I swear he means to comfort me by doing so. His hand is just out of reach, dangling from his chair’s armrest, but his fingers almost seem to be reaching for mine as his palm turns upward.

 

It’s wordlessly that he and Klaudia protect me. Until the clock strikes nine and the night is over, they hold back the fire and keep the storm from pushing through.

 

My stepmother reaches out to hold her daughter and kiss her temple. “Until tomorrow, dear.”

 

“Until tomorrow, Mama.”

 

They’ve said that to each other for as long as I can remember. After my father claps Roger on the back and gives Marco’s hand a firm shake, he fixes his eyes on me and nods.

 

“Jean,” he says – though I don’t expect anything further than a simple address. I nod back at him, hands clasped behind my back, and with a bitten tongue I watch in silence as he leaves the room.

 

“So nice meeting you, Marco,” Klaudia sighs, leaving the embrace of her mother’s arms to wrap him in one of her own. He hugs her back, giving her a delicate pat before pulling away.

 

And when she does, she doesn’t waste time; she’s holding me before I have time to react, and just as soon, that painful feeling returns in my chest. I can feel my stepmother’s disapproving eyes boring holes into me.

 

But it is with a tight squeeze that Klaudia whispers out of earshot, “Meet me at our spot in twenty minutes,” and reminds me that amid the silent war raging within our household, there is still safety in hiding.

 

* * *

  

Marco promises to wait in my room while I meet with Klaudia. I change into a t-shirt and flannel pants, pull on a hoodie, and give him one final look before slipping out, promising that I won’t take long. I’m quiet, making my way down the long hallway until I reach the very end. There’s a window that faces the back yard which is cracked and allows a gentle breeze to ruffle its curtains. I remember the path, pushing the window open a bit further so that I have room to step out, but just as soon as I do, I shut it tightly behind me.

 

Klaudia’s silhouette is black against the navy hue of the nighttime sky. Even though I know she can hear my careful footsteps crossing the roof, she doesn’t stir. Her knees are pulled up against her chest and she’s nestled comfortably inside an oversized crewneck, her eyes tilted skyward. Up close, I can see the moon’s reflection off them.

 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here,” she muses softly.

 

“Me, too,” I acknowledge. “Since before you moved out.”

 

Her voice is a sigh and it drifts like the breeze as she speaks. “Probably ten years.”

 

“I’m surprised you’re not too rickety to get up here.” I mean it jokingly. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for this?”

 

“Oh, shut up.” Her eyes narrow and she elbows me in the calf without holding back; I nearly yelp, but instead bite down hard on the inside of my cheek and topple (as discreetly as possible) beside her near the edge of the roof.

 

“Sorry about everything,” she says suddenly, but doesn’t look away from the sky. Her chin rests atop of her knees and she lets out a long-held breath. “About, well. Mom and Dad.”

 

“Dad’s a dick,” I mutter, and she laughs.

 

“Total dick,” Klaudia agrees. “What the hell was up with him tonight? I kept feeling like I was missing something.”

 

“Well,” I start, fixing my posture so that I’m cross-legged at her side, “it’s because you were.”

 

The chilly breeze blows through her hair and it swoops in front of her eyes. She doesn’t immediately tuck it behind her ear, but when she does, I note the darkness suddenly clouding her vision. The laughter that once hung in the air fades, fading into the darkness with the clouds of our breath.

 

Klaudia closes her eyes.

 

“Tell me.”

 

So… I do. I tell her all of it – or, as much as I can. I tell her about the last time I was home, and how it’s because of what happened that the air is so thick in that house. She turns her head when I tell her he hit me – almost like she doesn’t want to look at me. Or that she can’t bear to. I also tell her about declaring my major, and that I haven’t told him yet because I know he won’t understand.

 

“You need to talk to him,” she says with finality. “There’s a place you both need to meet, and unless you _make_ him understand, I’m not sure he ever will.”

 

I sigh. “I know I do.”

 

It’s quiet for a long time. We’re both lost in our own thoughts – on what to do, what to say, how to make things right when it feels like everything’s held together by loose threads.

 

“Marco was here over break,” I manage, despite myself. “He’s the one who helped me leave the morning after.”

 

Her voice sounds worn, despite her extended silence. “Where did you both go?”

 

“Before we went back to school?” She nods. “Uh, I stayed with Marco’s family. They sort of took me in.”

 

“They don’t have much, do they.” Klaudia probably means to ask it as a question, but it’s as if she already knows that it’s come out sounding more like a statement than anything. “I just… could tell, was all,” she murmurs.

 

I just nod plaintively. “But they shared everything they had with me. And, uh, at the time, Marco’s brother was in the hospital, in a coma.”

 

This catches her off-guard; she turns back to face me with wide eyes and rushes a worrying hand to her forehead. “Oh, god. Is he alright?” For some reason, I get this feeling that she means Marco – because it’s automatically assumed that his brother didn’t have a happy ending.

 

“No, no,” I start, shaking my head, “Angelo’s fine. Marco’s fine. They’re… they’re all alright. He woke up about a month ago and, ah, we drove to Jinae at two in the morning to see him. And, actually, we spent most of this week at Marco’s, visiting his family and stuff. He’s doing really well.”

 

Klaudia smiles, but quirks an eyebrow. “You sure seem to care a lot about Marco’s family,” she says.

 

It takes me a moment to decide how to answer – or, more accurately, how to put into words the strength, support, and kindness his family has shown me. I probably don’t deserve any of it but somehow…

 

“They changed me,” I decide finally.

 

She looks at me, close like she’s trying to figure out what I mean. But finally she says, “I can tell,” and it’s not condescending, or judgmental, but almost proud.

 

“You’re still my brother,” she continues, “but you’re not the same. At first, I thought it was college – hell, college changed me, too. But it’s more than that.”

 

There’s a pause that stretches between us. The wind whistles, rustling the trees that probably won’t sprout new leaves for a long time. It sends a shiver down my spine and I fold in on myself, trying to keep warm, but it doesn’t seem to phase Klaudia. She’s too lost in thought.

 

She speaks again. “You used to be distant. Like, I’d sometimes look at you and you’d have this far-off look in your eyes and… you just seemed hopeless. I got this feeling like me living so far from you would mean you wouldn’t have anyone.”

 

I snort. “It was like that for a while.”

 

“I think you were depressed.”

 

The wind whistles again.

 

“Maybe,” I murmur.

 

“Especially after you and Eren had that falling out in high school,” she sighs. “That happened right around the time I got married, didn’t it?” I can’t think of anything to say, so I shrug in agreement.

 

“I guess I just want to say that I’m glad you found someone,” she concludes.

 

There’s a surge in my chest. Part of it’s because I agree with her, and part of it is because I don’t know if she fully understands the deeper meaning behind her words. And how could she? There’s a sudden pang of guilt that rushes through me because I should tell her. She’s my _sister._ And… if I don’t tell her now, when will I get another chance?

 

 _You’ll regret it if you don’t,_ I think.

 

So, sucking in a deep breath I fight with myself and find the words that might change everything.

 

When I speak, my voice doesn’t shake.

 

“I love him.”

 

The way it comes out sounds so final; I don’t sound like the scared little kid I often feel like. Instead, I’m certain, because something about Marco has inexplicably helped shape me into the strong person I always wanted to be.

 

Klaudia lets out a low whistle. “You’re _in_ love?” Pause. “With Marco?”

 

“Yeah,” I breathe, and my eyes travel back up to the sky. “And… he loves me, too.”

 

“You know what though?” she says quickly, taking me off-guard at the suddenness of her words. I shoot a look in her direction and realize… she’s smiling.

 

“Maybe I’m just terrible at putting the pieces together,” she says, “and maybe I’m clueless, but even though I probably wouldn’t have known without you telling me, I… I could almost sense it. It’s weird. Like, a good kind of weird though, you know? It’s just not the type of thing you feel everyday. And when I first met him, and at dinner, and then afterward… You didn’t _need_ to say anything. You lean on him, and I think he leans on you, too.”

 

I find myself laughing – and it’s like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. “He’s a huge nerd.”

 

“Not the kind of person you would have been friends with.”

 

“Right.” And she laughs, but I catch her before she misunderstands me further and say hurriedly, “Before, anyway.”

 

“So there’s two parts,” she clarifies. “A before and after.”

 

I close my eyes and let the laughter die in my throat. With a deep breath, I let the cold air enter my lungs and breathe it out. My head is all at once clouded with memories of the time we’ve had together. In the long run, it hasn’t taken much time – nineteen years without him makes the past eight months seem retrospectively very short.

 

I’m certain of something, though. And that something is what has helped me fix myself, trading the bad for that feeling when I wake in the morning and he’s lying beside me, smiling… something good I never knew I was missing.

 

“With Marco,” I tell her quietly, “I think there is.”

 

* * *

  

When I get back to my room, Marco’s sitting with his back against the headboard, and in his lap is my sketchbook – open.

 

The sound of the door opening startles him, and his eyes flash with an almost anxious expression before he realizes it’s just me. His shoulders, which appear to have been tense, now relax and he smiles at me softly.

 

“Did it go well?” he asks.

 

“I think so,” I say, clicking the lock into the door handle before making my way across the room to the bed. Marco scoots to the left to make room as I slide in beside him.

 

I murmur, “Told Klaudia ‘bout us.” My head leans to rest on his broad shoulder, eyes fixed on the page he has open in my sketchbook.

 

“Really?” he asks – and even though he tries (bless his soul) he doesn’t quite seem to mask the surprise in his tone.

 

“Yeah. She understood, I think… I needed to tell her.”

 

He searches for my hand beneath the covers, twining our fingers and squeezing them gently. “I’m glad you did.”

 

The fan in my room is going in the corner and it rustles the hair in front of my eyes. When I push it back and away from my face, I reposition myself so that my back is flat against the headboard, just as Marco is.

 

“Why’re you looking through my sketchbook?”

 

“I was bored,” he admits with a laugh, “and it’s interesting to look at. I don’t remember some of these.”

 

“Me, either.” My fingertips find the corner of the page and when I turn it, I cringe. “Oh, God. Why is this so awful?”

 

“I don’t think it’s bad!” he immediately defends, his right hand flattening against the rough strokes of graphite. “You’re too hard on yourself, Jean.”

 

I scoff, but don’t push it. He turns the next page and it’s back to the numerous sketches of those weird people monsters I used to draw all the time. Marco jokes about their nakedness and complete lack of genitalia, so to shut him up, I pull a pencil out of the bedside drawer and lean over the sketchbook, marking out a small, crude dick.

 

“Okay, that wasn’t necessary,” he deadpans, snatching the pencil out of my hand and moving to erase my work. We’re laughing though a lot of it; with each page we turn, I suggest additions. Marco turns all of them down, of course, but the mecha and grotesque humanoids are so silly that his scolding tone is only partially effective.

 

We’re joking and goofing around until he flips the page dated sometime in December.

 

“This isn’t new,” he says, “but I definitely don’t remember it.”

 

“You wouldn’t – you were sleeping when I drew it.”

 

He’s careful, fingertips lightly grazing the page where marks come together, where a flurry of hatches shape and contour a figure.

 

“It’s me,” he states in disbelief.

 

I nudge him in the shoulder with my own. “Well, I’ve drawn you enough times that it shouldn’t come as _that_ big of a surprise.”

 

“I mean,” he says, disregarding my words, “this. This was before.”

 

“…Before?”

 

Marco’s blushing now as he leans further over the picture, which isn’t honestly that spectacular – it’s the one I drew of him while we were on the train to his house over break. His legs are up on my knee, arms folded across his chest with his chin pressed downward. He looks peaceful.

 

“Before we were together,” he states, but it’s muffled as his hand moves upward to cover his mouth. “You drew me, even then?” It’s like he still cannot fathom that I might have cared for him before that night we confessed to everything.

 

I breathe, closing my eyes a beat before opening them again and staring down at the page. “You were peaceful and I wanted to capture it.”

 

Marco nods, deciding how to respond. Then, finally: “Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but the way that it’s drawn? I feel like… well, like you cared about me… a lot.”

 

“You have no idea,” I say honestly. His hand lingers on the page and I wait for him to move on, only he doesn’t. He keeps staring at it; I watch his eyes flicker across the paper, committing it to memory because I get the feeling he doesn’t want to forget it.

 

“This one is really special to me,” he murmurs. “I just… never knew, I guess.”

 

I smile up at him, then lift the sketchbook from his lap. He doesn’t ask why – he already knows. Moving my hand to the back of his neck, I pull him down and to me. His arms wrap around my shoulders, dragging me down until we’re drowning in each other. My back arches beneath him, and as we kiss, and as his breath warms my lips, I say the words without speaking.

 

_I was falling in love with you while you weren’t looking._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, the adults are nowhere to be found. When Marco and I roll out of bed at 9:30 and make our grand entrance in through the kitchen door, it’s just Klaudia and Roger sitting at the table. Over coffee, she explains that Dad has a conference at work which might last until late in the evening, and her mother is out in the back yard gardening. As we sit down at the table, she gives me a look that tells me I need to speak with him when he gets home, and subtly, I nod at her.

 

At noon, we all go into town. Klaudia seems to remember the streets better than I do – and she leads us down Trost’s main boulevard. We walk down avenues, duck in stores, and when we reach the southern district (not far from school), I make sure to steer our group in the opposite direction of a certain shop – home of the Clone-A-Willy.

 

Roger seems distracted while Klaudia, Marco and I keep conversation; he’s quiet, keeping to himself even as she tries to include him, but he’s got other things on his mind. I see it when he stops to make calls on his phone while we’re knee-deep in retail, or when he interjects that we should all have a quick lunch before heading back.

 

“It’s his job,” Klaudia says to me as we walk down an aisle in a fragrance store. Roger’s just stepped out for the fourth time this afternoon, apologizing as he went. “My chef’s got a lot on his plate right now. No pun intended, though.”

 

“You’re such a loser,” I roll my eyes – accepting the apology she offers for her husband by instead commenting on her lame joke.

 

“So I like puns,” she shrugs, “sue me.”

 

“You two are so alike,” Marco muses aloud. We both look over at him as he holds a candle with golden-brown wax to his nose. He pulls it away and looks back at the pair of us. “And the best part is I don’t think you even realize it.”

 

She snorts and elbows me in the side. I wince, but when I go to shove her back I see the look Marco gives me out of the corner of my eye and I stop, throwing my hands up in the air and sigh, defeated.

 

I turn to face Marco, but from behind us sounds an impression of a whip being cracked – courtesy of Klaudia. Marco pats me on the shoulder in an attempt to console me, but the urge to smack my sister upside the head is strong.

 

Eventually, Klaudia caves and we all go to lunch. Marco mentions that, maybe next time they come back to the states, we could all go bowling, to which she whoops and makes him pinkie promise to keep that offer standing until the next time. Honestly, I’m not sure when that next time will be, and I know Klaudia doesn’t know either, but the way Marco so whole-heartedly loops his pinkie with hers is more than just a promise for bowling. It’s a promise that he’ll stick around… that he’s not going _anywhere._

 

After lunch, we hurry back home as per Roger’s request, and while he heads up to their room to retrieve his briefcase and finalize some business proposition, Klaudia, Marco and I all sit around in the parlor and talk. Klaudia drinks wine and tells us about her life overseas, and asks Marco and I about college. There’s questions she wants to ask that are burning at the tip of her tongue – the personal ones, about our relationship – but to save face in case of unwanted eavesdroppers, she asks more about his brother, about our roommates, about the parties and the classes and the friends. It’s all a whole lot more personal than last night in the parlor, because when we’re all alone, there’s no fear of judgment.

 

“So, Jean told me he’s officially declared his major,” Klaudia says after a long sip of wine. She fixes her eyes on Marco over its glass rim. “And I’m happy for him, but I think he needs to somehow break the news to his dad.”

 

“I’m sitting right here,” I joke, trying to play it off – though, secretly, it strikes a nerve.

 

“Ah, you’re probably right,” Marco says somewhat nervously, touching his index finger to his temple. “Art is really important to him… and I think, well, his father needs to understand that.”

 

“Jean,” Klaudia says, turning toward me. “I think you know what you need to do.”

 

The way she says it is, at first, light; she says it as easily as taking a breath. But there’s a silence that falls over the three of us, and once it begins to weigh down, I know that there’s no way I _can’t_ tell him. Unless I want to keep hiding – refusing to enter art shows because I’m afraid of what he’ll think – I have to do something about it.

 

And soon.

 

* * *

 

Dad doesn’t come home in time for dinner. We eat another extravagant meal, we help clean up, we retire to the parlor in the same tired way we did the night before, and at nine o’clock, we part ways and head for bed.

 

That’s when I hear the car in the driveway. My back is to the street, but I hear it, and in Marco’s eyes, I see the reflection of headlights.

 

No one needs to say it – it’s been welling up inside me since the night before, when Klaudia urged me to speak with him. But, if I’m honest with myself, it’s been since before then; since before winter break, since before she got married, ever since I can remember. We haven’t been right for a long time.

 

_It’s time to stop hiding._

* * *

 

I stand outside his office door with my hands in my pockets, trying to summon the courage to go inside – but the fact of the matter is that I’m nervous. I know what I need to say, but I’m afraid, and that’s what holds me back.

 

But Marco’s words from so long ago echo in my head: _You may not be a lawyer like your dad, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough to be his son._

 

Swallowing the lump in my throat, my eyes rise up from the crack in the doorframe and I force my hand out of my pants pocket, clenching it into a tight fist, and rapping three times against the dark wood grain.

 

Inside, I hear a rustling of papers, the squeaking of a leather chair, and then a gruff, “Come in.”

 

 _Just say what needs to be said,_ I think, _and then you can leave._

 

My hand shakes as it finds the doorknob, twisting it to the left, and pushing the door open. The room is dimly lit; there’s a lamp on in the corner, and the only other light comes from the computer screen at his right.

 

The look on his face when he sees _I’m_ the one who knocked shows me just how little he thinks of me. He’s perplexed, confused as to why I would ever want to speak to him other than when I’m forced to.

 

I cough into my fist. “Sir,” I start – but just as I do, he does something that surprises me, too. The paperwork that is strewn all across his desk – manila envelopes and files and transcripts and signatures – is pushed to the side. He gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk and, with a deep breath, I take a seat.

 

“Jean,” he says, though it’s awkward and forced. “What can I do for you?”

 

My hands fall to my lap. There’s something heavy kept in my pocket – weighted only because I expect one answer from my father, and it’s going to hurt to hear a confirmation.

 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I say, my words slow and carefully chosen. “And I’ve been thinking about it for the past few months… since, well, for a while, now.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, so I reach my hand in my pocket and pull out what I know I’ll never use again – not after I tell him what I’m planning on doing.

 

My father looks me over once, but his eyes fall back down to the object placed on the table, pinned down by the tip of my finger.

 

“It’s… the credit card you lent me,” I explain quietly. “I’m, uh, giving it back… I can’t accept any more of your money. For… textbooks, classes, money to throw around whenever I feel like it. I can’t use it anymore.”

 

He’s hard to read, my father is. His eyes always have that same hollow look inside them, usually glazed over from being wound so far inside himself. But for whatever reason, when I look up at him, I see a look flash across his face. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not dark. It’s… solemn.

 

“Why?” he asks after a minute, and I have to clear my throat if I want to keep going; I feel like I’m being choked by the choices I’m making, and I’m terrified, but I can’t let him know.

 

“Well,” I start, straightening my shoulders a bit, “I declared my major last month.”

 

“And?”

 

“And… I’m going for Studio Art.”

 

He sucks in a deep breath. “Did someone put you up to this? Was it that boy?”

 

“No,” I shoot back – suddenly defensive. “It’s my own decision. It’s what _I_ want. I’m giving this back to you because I’m taking control of myself in a way you don’t approve of.”

 

My next words are difficult to say.

 

“I’m… I’m not backing out of this, just because I need your blessing. I know that I’ll never be the kid you want me to be – I’m no lawyer like you, I’m no chef like Roger, I’m not good the way that Klaudia is good. All I have is myself… and I can’t go back, Dad. I love art, and… I can’t back down when I’ve only just started.”

 

Slowly, I push the card into the middle of the table. My legs wobble slightly when I stand, but I don’t think he notices. His eyes are fixed on the card, but his mind is fixed on what it means for me to walk out of his office, empty-handed.

 

I turn around and start toward the door, shoulders back, posture straight. Don’t let him see how much you care. Don’t let him know–

 

“Jean,” he says, but unlike the first time he spoke my name, he sounds certain this time. Perhaps even _more_ than certain. He’s… pained. I can hear it as though its laced on the edges of the words that fall from his mouth. “I’m not going to stop you… but I’m not going to abandon you, either.”

 

I’m so close to the door. My blood is racing, and my heart is beating so loud in my ears that I swear I don’t hear him right – because when I find it in myself to turn around and look at him, I see his mouth form the words:

 

“You’re my kid.”

 

But it’s too hard to hear… so I don’t believe him.

 

“I don’t think I heard you right,” I choke out.

 

So he repeats himself. “You’re my kid, Jean.” And his voice is louder now, so I don’t miss it this time.

 

“Don’t be so phony,” I narrow my eyes. “You never treated me like a son. I’ve felt like an outsider to you, and to your wife, and to everyone except Klaudia.”

 

His gaze on me does not falter, and I hope so desperately that it’s because he’s finally realizing what he’s done to me since day fucking one. I want to throw it in his face. Tell him how shitty it’s made me feel, living as an outsider in my own home, in my own skin…

 

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I find what I mean to say – hidden underneath so many years of bottled-up hurt – and I throw it at him with everything I have.

 

I close my eyes and breathe.

 

“You know, I only just realized that I deserve to feel like a human being – and not just some object for you to ignore for nineteen years, and then decide you have the right to determine my future.” I open my eyes again and stare him right in the face. I don’t even try to read his expression as I twist the knife. “It doesn’t work that way.”

 

“I know,” he murmurs, “I know.”

 

I don’t know what else to say; I feel like I’m choking. It’s warm, and I tug at my jacket’s collar and feel the sharp sting of longing in my chest. All I’ve ever wanted was to belong.

 

I pinch my eyes shut, but before I’m able to turn around again and get the hell out of this damn office, I hear him pick up the card.

 

“Jean, look at me,” he says; normally, I’d expect something like that to come out as a command, but now, his voice sounds more pleading than anything.

 

I blink them open and reason with myself not to let them slip.

 

“Jean,” he repeats, extending the card in his hand out to me, “you’re my _son._ ”

 

I don’t know if I’d ever believed him – not in the way sons should look up to their fathers, or the way fathers should care for and love their kin – but in this moment, I’m as close to believing as I ever have been.

 

His voice rings with an unspoken apology – but it’s all there in his eyes. For ignoring me, for what happened over winter break, for shoving his ideals down my throat and not expecting anything less from me than that – my father’s mouth stays shut tight, but his regret hangs heavy in the air.

 

“Take it,” he says finally. “I don’t know what this means for you, and honestly, I’m worried. But… I’m not letting you walk away from me, alright?” He pauses – and I see it flash again in his eyes. “If I lost you… I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.”

 

It’s worse now, the choking sensation. I just nod, walking back across the room to take the card, but before he lets it slip through his fingers, he holds it a moment, keeping me there. I look at him, watching me with a sincere expression, and when he finally lets go, I notice the breath he lets out – and I notice that it shakes.

 

“Dad,” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish; my voice breaks and he stands up from his chair, walking around the desk and toward me. My head is screaming for me to run, but my feet are glued to the ground.

 

And all at once, his arms are wrapped around me. I stop, and once my arms wrap around his back I let out the sob that’s been building in my throat since I can remember. I’m shaking and it’s shameful, but I cry hard on his shoulder and he lets me. It’s a surreal, almost out-of-body experience when I find him rubbing my back and quieting me – like I’m a kid. Like I wished he had my entire life.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

 

We stand like that for a while, before I finally pull away, sniffle, and wipe my eyes on my jacket sleeve. His arms fall to his sides and he looks back at his desk. Neither of us know what to say, until I murmur something about letting him get back to his work. He nods, and although it seems forced, he starts to retreat back again to his chair.

 

I feel hollow, like all the pain and anger I’ve put forth into hating my father are out in the open, and we’re both searching, trying desperately to find each other in the dark.

 

“Someday.” My father’s voice cuts through the quiet, calling out one last word before I find it in myself to leave.

 

I keep my eyes down, keep my hand on the doorknob, and with one foot out the door, I echo over my shoulder: “Someday.”

 

* * *

 

There’s something to be said about goodbyes. In the morning, when we say goodbye to my family – when Klaudia kisses me on the forehead, when my father hesitates before he hugs me, clapping me on the back – it’s not as final as I used to think goodbyes might be. Maybe it’s because I used to wish they _were._ But now, I think of it as more of a piece in a loop… because these goodbyes aren’t forever.

 

I’ll see Klaudia again; she’ll visit when she has the time, and I’ll be here. I’ll come home in a few months to live again for the summer, and my father and I will try to figure out how to mend something that’s been broken from the start. Maybe we’ll figure it out, but maybe we won’t. We’ll try anyway, because that’s what people have to do when they care about something enough. They don’t stop looking until they find a way.

 

* * *

  

It’s officially spring – not based on technicalities, but by the fact that the window in our dorm room is open and there’s sunlight coming through. It’s a Saturday, mid-April, and Marco doesn’t have to work… So we wake in the way that feels most natural.

 

Arms around each other. I breathe him in, eyelids opening softly, still and silent. I feel safe.

 

Marco starts to stir.

 

“Morning,” I mumble against his neck, and he laughs breathlessly before his arm, draped over my middle, moves upward to the nape of my neck.

 

“Two more weeks,” he whispers. “Mm, I need help making flashcards today if you’re not busy.”

 

I groan. “As long as you promise to help me get that canvas framed for the show later.”

 

“Deal.”

 

It’s so quiet. The breeze outside ruffles the trees that are just starting to bloom; there’s life here again. The air is almost chilly, but here under the blankets, it’s so warm. Marco’s bedhead is ridiculous, but it’s too early and I’m too tired to care, much less fix it for him. His legs are tangled with mine.

 

Alone, we are a mess of freezing cold; we’re hail, sleet, stormy to our core. But then there are moments like these, and we’re together, and everything is warm. It’s around us, it’s inside of me, and it spreads like wildfire wherever my skin touches his.

 

Subconscious thoughts of Marco consume everything and without having to think it, I know I’m his. As much as I ever could have learned to love someone – and with everything I have to give – I do.

 

I am in gratitude for his strength and compassion and understanding, in debt to all that he gives. I’m in love with every part of him – his dumb haircut and his freckles and the way he smells like cinnamon; the way he blushes, even still, when I hold his hand or when he catches me staring; how he never gets sick of doing my laundry, how he’s afraid of scary movies and how he’s never selfish. His laugh, his eyes, his touch, his breath at the back of my neck.

 

“Marco,” I murmur, but he already knows.

 

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do I even begin to describe what this story has become. Over the past year, it's been such a huge part in both my life and Katie's, and we are both so grateful for every kind word that anyone has ever said to us. To all the artists, for the amazing and beautiful work you have all created based on this silly thing we wrote, thank you so much. Everyone, even if you've never posted a comment - if you've made it here, to the end, I just want to thank you. Honestly, this has been a ride and we've made so many friends. I've laughed SO MUCH. I don't know if there are really words right now, and if there are, they aren't coming to me. Just thank you so much and I hope you have enjoyed reading our story as much as we have enjoyed writing it.
> 
> -Annie
> 
> OH! And one last thing.
> 
> Regarding what we're working on next: a Reibert-centric AMAIEC prequel is in the works. We're going to take a little break from writing, but we won't be gone for long.
> 
> You can always find us on Tumblr: [Annie](http://shingekinoboyfriends.tumblr.com/) \+ [Katie](http://katiedegennaro.tumblr.com)
> 
> ♡ ♡ ♡


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